Que Sera Sera
by Upgrade Me
Summary: 'He had been away for days at a time before now without so much as a word, but something about the weather and aura of the night put me ill at ease.' AU and supernatural. Holmes is brought home 'unconscious' after pursuing a mysterious character. Rated M
1. Chapter 1: The Beginning of The End

Where to begin! Right, this is my first serious fanfiction, I hope you readers enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! So, onto the formal stuff:

Title: Que Sera Sera

Rating: M

Disclaimer: If Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson belonged to me, I wouldn't be the one writing, Watson would be =]

Warnings: The rating for the entire story is 'M', although there will be chapters that don't accurately reflect this rating. There will be blood and disturbing content, perhaps even slash, I haven't totally decided yet. My updates will be sporadic and far apart, and will switch between the good Doctor's and Holmes's point of views. Anyways, on with the show and what not! ~Tips hat to you good readers~

The beginning of the end of all things rational

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I write this here in my personal diary, my honest account of the incredibly strange series of events that have taken place in our place of residence, 221B, Baker Street. I fear that if I do not write down my inner-most thoughts here, then our strange secret will weigh me down to such an extent that my mind would then choose to not properly function, and I simply cannot let that happen, more so now then ever. May god have mercy upon us all, especially you who read this.

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I glanced down at my pocket watch, forever aware of my room mates extended absence. I attempted to enjoy the warmth of the fire as the streets of London were subjected to a particularly violent downpour. I shuddered and wrapped my dressing gown tighter about me; Holmes would hopefully arrive home soon, and I had little doubt in my mind that he would bring the rain and cold in with him. He had rushed off with little explanation yesterday morning; twenty four hours had passed without word from him. I will admit, I was a little hurt that he did not wish for my assistance with whatever puzzle had caught his mind this time around, but I dare say this was hardly a new habit of his. He had been away for days at a time before now without so much as a word, but something about the weather and aura of the night put me ill at ease.

I was dragged from my morbid thoughts by a sharp knock, or should I say kick, on our sitting room door; I had been so lost in thought I had not heard anybody climb the stairs. It was well past the first hour of the morning, but my mind buzzed wide awake, fuelled by confusion and panic. A moment or two later, the door was kicked open to reveal Inspector Lestrade and another officer whom I had never met before, both straining between them to keep the unconscious third man upright.

''Holmes!'' I cried, rushing to their aid, regardless of my inappropriate attire and the time of the morning. ''What in the lords name happened?''

Lestrade spoke first, but avoided my eyes, opting to stare at the floor. ''It was supposed to be a simple task. It all began a few days ago with the escape of TRT, perhaps you read of it in the morning paper?''

''Yes, I am familiar with the... publicly released details.'' I answered as they moved to position Holmes on the sofa. I cringed as I took note of his skin's colour, or perhaps lack of would be a better description. I put my fingers to his wrist, and was relieved to find a pulse, although it was very weak. I took note of his breathing; shallow, rattling. His temperature was bordering on high, his clothes were dripping wet from the weather outside. ''Everybody out. These clothes will attract a chill, and I need to examine him further.

Nodding, both men took leave of the room, leaving me alone with Holmes. I rapidly removed his clothes as quickly as I could, averting my gaze as much a possible and then cast them aside into a soaking pile that would surely earn me a stern look from Miss Hudson in the morning.

I had seen Holmes in this state of undress many times before now in similar situations, but none of those times were he in such a sorry state without showing any signs of physical trauma. His skin clung to him pathetically, a bloodless white sheet over a skeletal frame. Although there were no visible wounds that I could see of, it was clear that he was physically weakened, but where this weakness came from I had no idea. This fact I brooded over whilst continuing to assess the damage, or apparent lack of.

_Oh Holmes, what did you get yourself into..._

He started to shiver, goosebumps assaulting his skin in waves. Gritting my teeth, I retrieved a blanket and placed it over Holmes, and it was then that I happened upon a single pin-prick upon his neck. I stared at it with a critical eye and much curiosity. I couldn't treat him without knowing more about how he got into such a state, there would be plenty of time to loose my temper later. I called Lestrade back into the room, wanting to speak with him and him only. I glared at him, raising my arm in Holmes's direction. ''Explain! What went on to leave him in such a state?''

Lestrade stared at the floor once more. ''There have been certain... 'developments' concerning the TRT, ones that haven't been released to the press. Take a seat and I will explain everything I know for certain.''

Blinking, I pulled up my writing chair next to the sofa, not wanting to be far from Holmes lest something happen. Lestrade looked up and for the first time since his arrival, sorrowfully met my gaze and began his story. '' Three days ago, we received an anonymous tip-off that a local warehouse was being used to house a well known criminal group that had recently escaped confinement on their way to a better holding facility. This criminal group was one that Holmes helped to catch and put away a few weeks earlier. They went by the name of 'The Waterside Trio'', or TRT for short-''

''What do you mean 'They went'?'' I cut in. Lestrade gave me a reluctant look. I nodded wearily, recalling the case he was referring to. The group Lestrade spoke of consisted of three professional thieves with a taste for breaking into the estates of wealthy elderly widows. They had dubbed themselves TRT, as most of the break-ins took place near, or at the side of local rivers or lakes, and they had used these as a means of transporting goods by boat.

''Naturally, once we received this tip-off, we alerted Holmes. We felt it only right that he should be kept informed, and he, as always, felt his involvement was necessary. Like I said, it was supposed to be a quick and simple task, rounding these three men up. They were still shackled. Can you imagine our shock when we arrived to find the freshly deceased bodies of the three men we were hoping to detain, as well as a body of a woman.''

''The three men being TRT? What of the woman? Who was she?''

Lestrade closed his eyes, the colour draining from his face. ''We... We can't tell Doctor.''

I stared, slack-jawed. ''What can you possibly mean?''

''There wasn't much left of her to identify... All that remained were her clothing and other... pieces.''

I tried to restrain the violent shudder that racked my body, but to no avail. The viciousness of the world never failed to shock me, even after my time abroad in Afghanistan. I walked over to the cabinet where Holmes and I keep our alcohol, and shakily poured myself a glass of brandy. Thankfully, Lestrade said no more as he waited for me to recover. Finally, I took a deep breath and regained my composure. Brandy has always been the best remedy for shock.

Lestrade coughed. ''As I was saying... We arrived to find four bodies, although it was only the body of the woman that had been left in such a sorry state. The members of TRT had been killed by what Holmes deduced to be blunt force, although for once his explanation was a massive understatement. These men, Doctor Watson, had their skulls caved in.''

Being so close to the fire with a brandy in hand saved me from a second shudder. I reluctantly nodded for the inspector to continue.

''Holmes wasted no time tracking down the fiend that killed those men and the woman. After about an hour of searching, he was hot on the murders trail, that is at least until a strange thick fog began to billow into the ally we were all running down. He ran into a side ally, shouting something about the weather, when suddenly we turned a corner and he was nowhere to be seen. We lost sight of him, until we heard him...'' Lestrade visibly gulped. ''That is, until we heard him scream.''

Anger flooded my mind, directed at too many people for too many reasons. Why hadn't Holmes included me in this case? Would Scotland Yard have lost sight of him if I had been there at the side of him? Why hadn't Lestrade and his men kept up, and why in lord's name did Holmes not possess a single concern for his own safety?

''We rushed down the ally to find Holmes in this state at the end. There was enough evidence to suggest Holmes caught up with the villain, and a fight of sorts broke out. It must have all happened at once, for we thought we weren't many steps behind Holmes. Either the fiend caught him by surprise, which is unlikely as he had time to shout out, or Holmes was further ahead then we first thought.''

''So he was exactly like he is now when you found him?''

Lestrade nodded numbly.

''Then what, pray tell, do you make of this, inspector?'' I said a little too forcefully, pulling back Holmes's blanket with a flourish to expose his neck. Lestrade regarded the single pin-prick wound with a blank stare, which quickly changed to a look of confusion.

''Well... I didn't notice that when we first found him. What is it, a dart wound?''

I took this opportunity, now knowing of the events that led up to where we stood, to examine the wound further.

''The puncture is too wide for a simple dart to have caused this, and from his symptoms, he doesn't appear to have been poisoned. In fact... All of his symptoms can be contributed to concussion and his poor eating habits.'' I said to nobody in particular. I didn't need to let them know any more. ''I myself haven't the slightest idea of what would cause such a wound. Our best course of action would be to keep him warm and comfortable until he wakes up naturally.''

Lestrade nodded, took one last look at Holmes, then bid me farewell. Sighing, I took a hold of Holmes's wrist and checked his pulse. It was still worryingly weak. Holmes hadn't shown any signs of waking up so far, so I resigned myself to staying awake the entire night, brandy at hand.

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I had been constantly vigilant of Holmes's condition throughout the following weeks, worry eating away at my nerves as his condition simply refused to improve. Much to my horror, he had obviously slipped into a strange coma of sorts, and me and Miss Hudson had reluctantly inserted a rubber tube down his throat so that we could keep him fed with weak watery soup and water.

As a doctor, I had no trouble dealing with his bodily functions, a trip to the rest room was quite naturally out of the question, but as a friend and colleague of Sherlock Holmes, I struggled greatly. To see him in such a state, uncertain as to whether I would ever again see him conscious was most distressing, I was loathe to leave his room even for a moment lest something change. My reluctance by now was quite visible; I grew a beard to accompany my moustache.

I had taken to sleeping in hourly increments; Mrs Hudson was so kind enough to keep an eye on Holmes as I rested. Bless her kind soul, she never objected to bringing my meals up to Holmes's room so that I might keep my vigil.

All cases that were sent to Holmes via letter or any other means were replied to by my own hand. I would write the same reply each time, regardless of the circumstances of the case, regardless of how unusual or exciting it appeared to be. Soon, I had written a base reply, and would simply copy it out, changing the names of the recipients each time. It read:

Dear ~ ~ ~,

I am sorry to inform you that Sherlock Holmes is currently abroad on a case of dire consequence, and as such he can not take your case at this time. Upon his return, your case will be handed to him for further examination.

Many apologies,

John Watson

About a week and a half into his coma, I began to smoke his tobacco within his room, hoping the smell and familiarity would wake him from his slumber. Of course, his tobacco was much stronger then mine, and I found it a difficult task at first, but after a day or two, I found I could smoke it almost as easily as my own. It had no effect on my dear friend.

Another week passed in smothering silence, the quiet only being broken by Lestrade making a sudden appearance and Miss Hudson demanding that I eat. I had long lost my apatite, but I reluctantly nibbled on the corner of a slice of toast anyway, and took a sip of the tea she provided.

Four days later, after one of my 'meals', I dashed from Holmes's room in desperate search of something stronger familiarly then his horribly potent tobacco. Looking around the sitting room, my gaze finally rested upon his Stradivarius. I couldn't play, and never before had I thought of taking it up to play, as I knew this finely crafted instrument was so precious to the man upstairs I considered it to be almost a part of his very soul. I smiled at this thought; Holmes would no doubt mock me relentlessly if he ever were to hear me say such a thing.

Picking up the violin from where it lay, I carried it upstairs with the amount of care you would usually expect to find in a mother carrying her newborn child. Holmes was as I left him, no better, no worse, and this thought filled me with black sorrow. I only hesitated once, before standing on the left hand side of his bed and drawing the bow across the strings in a single experimental stroke. The sound created was, of course, far from beautiful, but I resolved to keep playing until I improved. I was sure I could wake him with this method.

An hour later, Holmes stopped breathing and his chest ceased to rise.

At the sight of him no longer breathing, I dropped my brandy in shock and rushed over to his side, ice-fear paralysing my limbs and draining the colour from my body. I took his pulse, panicking when there wasn't one to be found. I removed the tube from his throat a little too quickly and began to force air into his lungs.

_Don't you dare give up on me, Sherlock Holmes! Don't you dare..._

I put timed pressure on his chest over and over, hoping to revive him. It was no good, my world came crashing down around me in a haze of silent destruction, I was powerless to save him. He was gone.

I screamed in a rage and collapsed onto the side of his bed, unable to stop my heart racing, the tears that flowed freely down my face nor the choking sobs that wracked my body until I was too exhausted to care for breathing. I had failed him when he was most vulnerable, and in doing so, I had lost him, the greatest mind I had ever the pleasure of knowing, for a second and final time. Reichenbach was a mere shadow in comparison to loosing him here.

Suddenly, as if some unknown deity I had never taken the time to believe in recognised my pain, Holmes drew in a deep shuddering breath, his eyes wrenched open as though none of this dreadful affair had ever taken place, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare! I quickly took his pulse, or tried to, but I could not find it. Euphoria dismissed my worry quickly; I would try again soon when I was less excitable.

At that moment, I threw my arms around his shoulders and crushed the air from him. I was amazed he found the oxygen to speak, but when he did, I shamelessly began to sob once more. He had not even shown a single sign of waking for the last three weeks, and oh how I missed something as simple as his voice, rasping as it now was!

''Watson... What on earth are you doing?''

At the sound of his own cracked voice, his hand shot up over my shoulder to his throat, shock evident on his face. Obviously, he hadn't had much use for it over the past weeks, and I grinned foolishly at the thought of the great Sherlock Holmes being able to surprise even himself. ''I do believe, or so I have heard from many people, that it is called something like a 'hug' old boy!''

If Holmes wasn't surprised before, he was now, and the surprised expression on his face was a delight to behold after watching it expressionless for so many days. His hand remained at his throat a I released him from my hold, and it suddenly occurred to me that he would be in dire need of a proper drink. ''Would you like something to drink Holmes? Having a tube stuck down your throat for three weeks has surely taken its toll! How are you feeling?''

''Three... Three weeks?'' He exploded, his mouth agape. It was then that he took in his surroundings, the evidence of three weeks worth of time, care and mess lay about the room. He gave me a puzzled look, then his eyes settled upon his Stradivarius, eyebrows raised.

''Yes, yes I am fine... and a drink sounds delightful, if only you would care to explain what happened to me whilst you pour one!''

I nodded and jumped from the bed, instantly regretting it as the old wound in my leg ached unforgivingly as I landed a little too hard. I grinned as Holmes made a small noise of concern. How I missed the man! I quickly walked over to his desk, embarrassed by the sheer volume of papers that had accumulated from my near-constant writing, and poured him a glass of cold water.

''One day short of three weeks ago, Lestrade and a new member of Scotland Yard carried you through the door downstairs. You were unconscious... or so I first thought, and were in a terrible condition. Although you didn't sport any of the typical physical injuries, a fact which, might I add, I found to be most surprising, I took note of a small pin-prick wound on your neck.''

I paused to hand Holmes the drink. Whilst I had my back turned, he had fully sat upright against the headboard of his bed, and was now in the process of stretching. When I spoke of his only wound, he comically paused mid-stretch so that he might devote his entire attention to what I was to say next, only moving to take small sips of the water I had handed to him.

''The wound itself was perfectly circular, and I would have been tempted to assume it was created by a dart of some kind or another, if the wound itself didn't look as though it was made by an object that started thin and incredibly sharp, and ended thicker and somewhat blunter.''

He rubbed his eyes, deep in thought as his mind processed this information. I took this opportunity to press two fingers to the pulse point underneath his jaw, surprised when Holmes didn't wave my attentions away. Frowning, I removed them again after a moment. I could still not find his pulse, a phenomenon that was beginning to worry me to no end. I then decided to try the one on his wrist, but it yielded the same result. I didn't wish to alarm Holmes, so I did not mention it yet, the man had just awoken from a three week slumber. He seemed to recognise there was something odd with his condition, but whether he didn't mention it for my sake or his own I didn't know. Instead, he broke the silence with another question.

''Watson... Why is my violin here? Surely I left it in the sitting room?''

I nodded wearily, then pulled up the seat from his desk. It was then that his question brought to mind one of my own. ''What is the last thing you remember Holmes?''

He closed his eyes, bringing his fingers up to massage his temples. ''I remember... I remember going to sleep here as though it were any other night. I do not recall waking since then, other then now.''

The shock on my face must have been remarkably evident. ''Holmes, not only have you remained in a coma-like state for the last three weeks, it appears as though you have lost your memory of the day leading up to when Lestrade brought you home.''

He eyed me critically in silence. Sherlock Holmes's mind was his own greatest treasure; although he showed no outward signs of fear, I was certain he did feel it. Instead of pursuing this trail of thought, I dropped it in favour of elaborating more upon what I knew of that night.

''Lestrade said you and the Yard were in hot pursuit of the criminal group named TRT. Your searches led you to an abandoned warehouse, where the bodies of the three members, and the body of a fourth were found.''

He nodded for me to continue, his eyes still wandering about the room a though he had never seen it before. ''After a little while, you found the murderers trail and tracked him down. Your search took you to an ally, but you and Scotland Yard were separated by a sudden bout of mist. Lestrade found you unconscious at the far end of the ally, with no marks upon you other then that curious neck wound. They brought you home and Mrs Hudson and I have been constantly watchful of your condition ever since.''

He steepled his fingers together, his eyes still closed. ''I remember nothing.'' His response was pitifully simple, although something in his tone led me to believe he knew more then he was telling me. I decided not to press the matter. ''I ask again, why is my violin not where I originally left it?''

I chuckled silently, shaking my head. It was not an understatement when I before said his violin was a part of his soul. ''I brought it in here, along with your tobacco, in hopes of reviving you.''

He frowned in confusion, prompting me to elaborate further, and I did so. ''With coma patients, familiar objects, particularly those with a distinct smell or sound, have been shown to stimulate the brain. In some cases, even a person's voice may rouse the patient from their sleep.''

Propping himself up with a pillow, his gaze turned towards the ceiling of his room. ''I had no idea you could play, Watson.''

''Oh don't misunderstand me Holmes, I have never played a violin before.''

At this, he made a ghost of a smile. ''I think I should very much like to hear you play.''


	2. Chapter 1B: The Birth of Something

Okay here's the second chapter! Thank you for last chapter's reviews Kaiho Neko and Excel-chan, they gave me more motivation to get this chapter written and posted up =]

A/N: This was a fun chapter to write, although I'm not sure I have Holmes' voice down yet . Oh well, no rest for the wicked I guess! This chapter is Holmes' point of view of chapter one with a little more of the day included, hope you guys and gals enjoy =] All of Holmes' chapters that are his POV's of the same events described in Watson's regular chapters, will be listed as the same chapter number then with the addition of the letter B. Chapters from anybody else's POV will be 'C', and will have whoever it is name in the chapter title =]

The birth of something, the death of another.

[-]

~Holmes' perspective~ 

I awoke quickly as though literally wrenched from Morpheus. For a moment I was quite at a loss as to where I actually was; the room was far, far too bright and my eyes stung persistently from the moment they opened. For some unknown reason, my throat felt incredibly sore, and I could already feel the beginnings of a headache creeping up upon me. For a moment, I was completely overwhelmed by what my five senses presented me with; dull, throbbing pain dominating more then any other sensation, and that was when I felt fingers at my wrist. I was only given a moment or two to analyse the situation; to separate the not entirely unwelcome sensation of his fingers from the ache that seemed to radiate from everywhere simultaneously with no singular point of origin, before dear Watson embraced me quite suddenly. Although I am not one to be surprised often, he certainly managed to do so then.

''Watson... What on earth are you doing?''

Speaking required a much greater effort then usual, and for the second time in as many moments I found myself caught well and truly off guard as the sound was ripped painfully from my lungs. My voice was more alike to a rasp; lower then my usual pitch and rougher then what I was used to both hearing and producing. I thought it quite curious, and regarded it as much whilst adjusting to this new piece of self-supplied information.

''I do believe, or so I have heard from many people, that it is called something like a 'hug' old boy!'' He replied with a large grin. Very curious. ''Would you like something to drink Holmes? Having a tube stuck down your throat for three weeks has surely taken it's toll! How are you feeling?''

''Three... Three weeks?'' My reaction was perhaps a tad forceful, although Watson found it to be highly amusing. I took in my surroundings and my mind instantly began to categorise the mess of objects strewn about my room. A large proportion of the items belonged to Watson, confirming that I had indeed been 'asleep' for at least two weeks, but it was not the evidence of my time confined to my bed that drew my gaze finally. It was the unusual presence of my violin. ''Yes, yes I am fine... and a drink sounds delightful, if only you would care to explain what happened to me whilst you pour one!''

I watched as Watson leapt from my side a little too enthusiastically, and could not stop a small sound of protest when I took note of how hard he landed any more then I could help wincing at the unnatural, echoing volume of the noise. How strange, perhaps it was an after-effect of whatever incident that put me in this state. Really, he is an excitable fellow, but given the situation, I do believe I would react much in the same way, if not with even more energy. I would be lost without my Boswell's conscious presence, although I would never tell him of my feeling beyond that fact. As he walked from my bed to my writing desk, I noted with active curiosity the amount of papers that were strewn across my workplace. Had the man slept during those three weeks? He poured me a glass of ice-water, speaking with his back to me a he did so. I struggled to fully sit up; my muscles protested to being moved so suddenly.

''One day short of three weeks ago, Lestrade and a new member of Scotland Yard carried you through the door downstairs. You were unconscious... or so I first thought, and were in a terrible condition. Although you didn't sport any of the typical physical injuries, a fact which, might I add, I found to be most surprising, I took note of a small pin-prick wound on your neck.''

I began to stretch; really, I could feel Watson had done his best to ensure my body had not given way to weakness during my slumber, but still my body ached horribly from lack of conscious movement. I paused mid-stretch, his new information triggering my mind's deductive processes. With a glass of water in one hand, I listened intently to Watson's observations, taking small sips of the liquid as he explained his findings. I could feel the beginnings of a strange headache throbbing from behind my eyes.

''The wound itself was perfectly circular, and I would have been tempted to assume it was created by a dart of some kind or another, if the wound itself didn't look as though it was made by an object that started thin and incredibly sharp, and ended thicker and somewhat blunter.''

I set the glass aside and instead brought my hands to my eyes. The curtains were drawn almost fully, yet the presence of sunbeams from outside irritated my already over-stimulated eyes. I was feeling inexplicably drowsy in spite of spending so much time with my eyes closed. I felt Watson's fingers at my throat once more, and for once I let him examine me without any objections. Somehow, I felt guilty for worrying the man as much as I did, letting him know I was perfectly well without any resistance helped to stem my emotions.

Apparently, I was not perfectly well, a Watson withdrew his hand, his expression one of confusion. Instead, he moved his fingers to my wrist, and again, he removed his hand doubtfully. I did not push him for a diagnosis; if it was of some concern, I had no doubt in mind that he would tell me so, and then proceed to constantly mother me. An inexplicably awkward silence followed Watson's examination, so I thought it best to distract him from his worries with another question. ''Watson... Why is my violin here? Surely I left it in the sitting room?''

He deflected my inquiry for some unknown reason, and instead pulled up my chair and asked his own. ''What is the last thing you remember Holmes?''

By now, the natural light from behind the crack in the curtains was beginning to irritate me more and more, but I remained ignorant of my body's discomfort. Instead, I wearily began to massage my temples with my fingers, hoping to relieve the pressure behind my abused eyes. I thought for a moment, casting my mind back to the last memory it would willingly conjure up.''I remember... I remember going to sleep here as though it were any other night. I do not recall waking since then, other than now.''

Watson looked positively horrified, although for what reason I could not currently fathom. My ears were ringing lightly, and I thought perhaps I felt the warning shots of the beginnings of a migraine. ''Holmes, not only have you remained in a coma-like state for the last three weeks, it appears as though you have lost your memory of the day leading up to when Lestrade brought you home.''

Ah. That answered my unasked question as to why he reacted in such a way. For the first time since waking, I felt the full gravity of the situation hit me with such a violence I felt physically sick. I of course showed no outward signs of such a reaction; it would be a useless thing indeed to worry the man any further.

''Lestrade said you and the Yard were in hot pursuit of the criminal group named TRT. Your searches led you to an abandoned warehouse, where the bodies of the three members, and the body of a fourth were found.''

I nodded as I felt small fragments of my memory of that night return to me. I remembered a dark ally, could almost smell the odour of urine and alcohol as if I were there that very second. I looked around, the memory revealing more as I took in the sights my mind had to offer. Such detail for a mere memory! I would have laughed if I weren't so absorbed in the scene set before me. I could vaguely hear Watson speaking to me, giving my strange out of body experience-come memory an equally strange commentary. I 'moved' down the alleyway, mimicking my route from that night three weeks ago.

Another 'step', another fragment of memory presented to me, and another question stored away for a time when my mind was feeling less harassed. I 'kicked a bottle, and was surprised to 'hear' it smash against a nearby wall. I 'moved' with more haste, only pausing to examine the strange black mist that seemed to billow out of the cobblestones themselves. I began to move through the strange phenomenon, undeterred by the fact I felt sluggish and weak as I did so. I was suddenly wrenched back to baker street, only to find Watson's commentary had not ended. Thankfully, my composure had not slipped during my 'episode'.

''After a little while, you found the murderers trail and tracked him down. Your search took you to an ally, but you and Scotland Yard were separated by a sudden bout of mist. Lestrade found you unconscious at the far end of the ally, with no marks upon you other then that curious neck wound. They brought you home and Mrs Hudson and I have been constantly watchful of your condition. ever since.''

Still feeling slightly disorientated from my rather vivid memory, my hands found each other so that I might think and piece my recollection together. After another moment of awkward silence, Watson remained awaiting my thoughts upon the matter. Although I was unsure of the events and perhaps even fearful about what it could all add up to, I chose to keep the man in the dark until I could distinguish fact from speculation on my part. ''I remember nothing.'' I paused, and for a second time my gaze rested quite against my will upon my Stradivarius. ''I ask again, why is my violin not where I originally left it?'

Apparently, my words only served to amuse my Watson. He smiled to himself secretly, as though recalling a private joke. ''I brought it in here, along with your tobacco, in hopes of reviving you.''

I nodded, glaring at the light behind the curtains. Watson looked up at me, a little suspicious, but continued with his explanation anyway. ''With coma patients, familiar objects, particularly those with a distinct smell or sound, have been shown to stimulate the brain. In some cases, even a person's voice may rouse the patient from their sleep.''

I adjusted my pillow so that I could turn my gaze to the ceiling, instead of that blasted glare from outside. After three weeks of peace, it was no wonder my eyes objected to the overpowering stimulus that was the setting sun. ''I had no idea you could play, Watson.''

''Oh don't misunderstand me Holmes, I have never played a violin before.''

For some odd reason, hearing him say those words tempted me to smile, one of which I barely resisted. Somehow, regardless of my long sleep, I think I had missed him. ''I think I should very much like to hear you play.''

[-]

An hour or so passed with relative ease. Thankfully, the sun had set in the distance, and twice Miss Hudson had interrupted our conversations by entering my chamber with a particularly large pot of tea. I admit, I felt much better then I did the moment I regained consciousness, although the thought of tea made my stomach turn uneasily for some reason. I had yet to eat anything, and felt an intense hunger I had not experienced since my long travels eastwards. Sighing, I told Miss Hudson to prepare a late dinner of sorts; I feared a supper-meal would not sustain me at all.

Upon my mentioning of hunger, Watson smiled at me from where he sat. He would under no circumstances let me leave my bed until the next morning. Although I objected to the good Doctor's instructions, they were well meant, and so I was to remain unwillingly bed-bound until the sun arose once more.

Watson had fetched me my favourite pipes some time earlier, and I took a particularly large drag of smoke as Miss Hudson re-entered the room with a half-cooked steak and a small mound of potato and assorted vegetables. The woman had grown very fond of her odd tenants, and upon her discovery of my waking, had reacted much as Watson had. Smiling, she placed our dinner-tray amongst the now tidy paper-piles on my desk and bid us both a very good night.

Making to move from my bed, Watson gave me a stern look, but otherwise did nothing to stop me. I took a seat next to him, pipe still in mouth, and properly examined the meal our landlady had supplied us with.

Over a hot plate of food, Watson and I's conversation quickly reverted back upon the topic of that night. I had over the course of the hour managed to pick up more fragments of memory, and I saw no harm in now telling Watson what I knew of that night. ''It is as Lestrade said, although he knew no more of once we were separated. I remember seeing the assailant a small distance ahead and relentlessly pursuing until I had cornered him at the other end of the side-street.''

Watson listened intently as I knew he would. For some peculiar reason, the good Doctor was fiercely protective of me, and his expression darkened when I recalled being surrounded by a choking mist so incredibly thick I was blinded and unable to see my target. ''I could see nothing, hear nothing. It felt as though I were slowly suffocating. Meanwhile, the fiend had somehow managed to move behind me. I felt a pain to the neck, then nothing more.'' Watson drank deeply of his tea, and this action coupled with his scowl made me smile. As I said, he was fiercely protective.

''Holmes, I have a question.''

I nodded, cutting into my steak. Miss Hudson had prepared it quite rare, and although I was one to usually prefer my steak well done, I felt strangely starved as I ate the first piece. Watson had paused to watch my enthusiasm, an eyebrow raised in surprise. ''Why did you not ask for my assistance in this matter?''

Ah. I had anticipated such a question would eventually arise, and answered him as truthfully as I could bring myself to be. ''I felt your presence would have been unnecessary, after all, it was supposed to be a quick arrest, no mystery involved. Do not be offended by this, it would have been pointless indeed to risk your safety over a trifle. ''

My words seemed to put the man at ease, so I returned my attentions to the beautiful specimen of a steak before me. As I cut into it again however, I heard a strange echoing whisper in my ear that strangely sounded as though Watson had said the words himself, for even the whisper resembled his voice.

_Damned fool..._

My eyes shot up from my plate to look at Watson, and I was shocked to discover that he could not have said those words, as he was just finishing his drink. ''I'm sorry Watson, did you say something?''

He drained the last dregs of his tea, then shook his head.

''But I could have sworn...''

He placed his cup upon the table, then walked over to where I was sat. I uttered a protest as he, for the third time in one night, took my pulse. He coughed, then removed his hand, concern thoroughly visible in both his body language and expression. ''Holmes... Try as I might... and you know I have tried many times... I cannot find your pulse.''

I scowled, dropping my fork to the plate and placing two fingers upon the pulse point on my wrist, my eyes widening dramatically when I too failed to find a pulse. Earlier on, I had presumed there was some small unimportant anomaly concerning my heart rhythm, now I fully understood why Watson had been frequently monitoring my pulse, or lack-of. The pulse point at my neck yielded the same result, and I found myself thinking back to earlier; my blatant objection to the sun, my overpowered senses, my dreamlike memory of that night; the black suffocating mist.

More recent events came to mind; my hearing voices and newly found interest in the rare steak. I swallowed hard, and abandoned my meal in favour of retrieving the knife I usually used as a method of storing my letters. Upon my return to the room, I found Watson staring out into the empty street through my window.

''I ask a favour of you Watson.''

He turned to face me and I could not help but notice the subtle lack of colour in his face. He nodded, then reluctantly took a seat. ''What does it all mean Holmes? What can it possibly mean?''

''I have reason to believe that something has gone terribly wrong, that your life could possibly be in grave danger, and has been ever since my awakening. Would you allow me a drop of your blood for examination?''

''If only you would explain a little to me before you do so, I can find no sensible reason to object.''

I nodded and then at down cross legged on the edge of my bed, choosing my words with care. ''I have reason to believe the man I was pursuing that night was no ordinary murderer. Tell me Watson, what, pray tell, do you know of vampires?''

Watson ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head wearily as he did so. ''I do not see how superstition, vampirism, or children's stories fit into this Holmes. There is no substance to them, they are but tales for children and the superstitious.''

I sighed and steepled my fingers together, resigning myself to a full explanation of my line of thought. ''My travels took me to the east, upon where I stayed with a group of monks for a month or two. I heard a great many things during my stay; impossible things, tales of the dead rising from their graves to consume the life-blood of the living, human sacrifice, possession!''

Watson stared at me intensely, his hair now thoroughly ruffled. ''Tales are tales Holmes. Surely you do not believe in such nonsense?''

This time it was I that shook my head. ''Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You have heard me say as much on many occasions before now, but I can hardly think of a situation that it is more suited to.'' I glanced towards the door as I simply could not bring myself to stare upon his face, my own words revolving around my oath to follow logic, mocking me relentlessly. Of course I did not believe in such tales!

''I cannot bring myself to believe that you, a man of sound mind and body, would even pause in your deductions to consider such ridiculous conclusions! Listen to yourself man! Do you honestly believe vampirism to be the cause of these oddities?''

With my gaze still to the door, I continued my explanation. ''No, I cannot bring myself to believe in such things, not without ample proof nor solid, unquestionable fact. Unfortunately, I have been presented with a few such facts, and this is how I believe the situation to stand.''

I risked a glance to my companion to find him staring at me with an incredible amount of intensity. I often found it hard to look directly into his eyes once he was angry, for their specific shade of blue forever made me feel as though he could literally see through me; pick my faults apart as I often did to the scene of any crime. I found I could not look away when he began to walk towards me, and I could tell he was quite angry; the length of his stride and his tense stature being the tell tale signs of his mood. He stopped a small distance from me, hands in his pockets, his expression stern.

''Then explain it to me. I see all you see, yet I cannot fathom how you could possibly come to such a conclusion. For one, you look perfectly fine, perhaps a shade paler then usual, but that is to be expected considering for the past three weeks you have eaten only soup and drank only water.''

Watson was a little shorter then I, although as I sat on my bed, I could not help but feel a little... smaller in comparison with his passionate analysis of my condition.

''You sat in a room with the curtains half-closed, and yes, you did appear to suffer some discomfort, although Holmes, if you were a victim of vampirism, wouldn't you have been reduced to dust? I put your discomfort down to lack of any real nutrition and lack of movement, not vampirism!''

His anger was becoming increasingly evident; the man was now punctuating his words with exaggerated gestures. I coughed. ''Watson, if only you would listen-''

''No Holmes! I will not stand here and willingly listen to you trying to explain the after-effects of concussion and your poor eating habits in such a poor manner!''

Although his own manner of explanation was hardly restrained, I allowed him to continue his own observations and explanations.

''Three weeks Holmes! I cared for you for three whole weeks, only stopping an hour at a time to ensure I was well enough to do so! I bathed you, kept your condition stable! Watched you stop breathing, watched your body still, and my blood ran cold with horror as I found that was all I could possibly do! Watch!''

By now, he had long dropped his restraint, and paced up and down the length of my room, although he said no more.

''I appreciate your efforts Watson, I do indeed. I know for a fact I do not tell you enough, and I know I am blessed indeed to be able to call you not only my biographer, but my trusted companion. If it were not for your efforts, I would have surely expired long before now. For this, and for many more things; too many more things, you have my most humble thanks.''

Watson ceased his pacing, and I was thoroughly thankful to see his expression soften considerably at my words. He returned to the foot of my bed with renewed curiosity at my retrieval of my letter-knife.

''With those honest words said, I repeat my earlier question. Would you be so kind as to help me with an experiment of sorts?''

Watson sighed heavily, then nodded.

''I need a small sample of your blood.''

His eyebrows rose and he tensed for a second, obviously still disapproving of my theory. To my surprise, he offered his hand to my regardless.

''I fear I must ask one more thing of you before I the incision is made.''

''Whatever you deem necessary Holmes.''

''I must ask you to stand by the door and make the cut yourself. After the cut is made... at the first sign of any unusual reaction on my part, I ask that you flee and lock the door behind you.''

He nodded reluctantly, took my knife, and then made his way to the doorway. He removed the key from the inside of the door, then lifted the knife to his hand. In one fluid motion, he drew the blade across the palm of his hand, and at the sight of scarlet, my vision darkened and I knew nothing more.


	3. Chapter 2: Outside Assistance

Oh my, many more reviews! I wasn't expecting my story to be this popular! O_o To my reviewers:

-**Sno-Oki:** Thank you for pointing out a little problem I have been having, I'm glad you are enjoying what you read so far XD

-**Alex455: **Yes, it is indeed a shame! I tried to get this update out as quickly as I could, but I'm currently in the middle of my A level exams so... .

**-Hunter of Darkness:** Thank you very much! I do know the whole idea of vampirism has been toyed with before, but I really couldn't let this idea go to waste!

**-Kaiho Neko:** Thank you again for the reviews, I hope this chapter will be as entertaining as the last two, if not more!

**- Excel-chan:** More motivation! Hurray ^-^ Here is another chapter for your entertainment!

Hoki Doki, back to Watson's POV, lets see what the good Doctor gets up to!

Outside assistance, inside information

[-]

''I have reason to believe the man I was pursuing that night was no ordinary murderer. Tell me Watson, what, pray tell, do you know of vampires?''

I had always looked upon the topic of 'The Supernatural' with a curious, if not scornful eye, just as I had always viewed Holmes to be the most rational, logical thinker that Lady Britain could have ever produced. Can you imagine my shock when the great Sherlock Holmes began to spout otherworldly theories concerning his condition?

''I do not see how superstition, vampirism, or children's stories fit into this Holmes. There is no substance to them, they are but tales for children and the superstitious.''

As a doctor, the theory itself was an incredible insult, an insult that Holmes apparently ignored whilst I silently fumed across the way. As his friend, I was concerned that perhaps the after-effects of his concussion were far more serious then I first thought they were, as never before had I heard Holmes theorise any one of his cases in such a way.

''My travels took me to the east, upon where I stayed with a group of monks for a month or two. I heard a great many things during my stay; impossible things, tales of the dead rising from their graves to consume the life-blood of the living, human sacrifice, possession!''

I couldn't help but stare angrily in his direction whilst running my hand through my hair. After all, on many occasions whilst abroad in Afghanistan, I had heard tales amongst the soldiers of such utter nonsense. ''Tales are tales Holmes. Surely you do not believe in such nonsense?''

He shook his head, his reply more disturbing then the theory of vampirism itself, for he repeated his own self made oath in relation to the subject.

''Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You have heard me say as much on many occasions before now, but I can hardly think of a situation that it is more suited to.''

It brought me some morbid satisfaction that he chose to stare blankly at the door rather than confront my own gaze, and I fear it was the best as I found I could no longer fully contain my anger.

''I cannot bring myself to believe that you, a man of sound mind and body, would even pause in your deductions to consider such ridiculous conclusions! Listen to yourself man! Do you honestly believe vampirism to be the cause of these oddities?''

''No, I cannot bring myself to believe in such things, not without ample proof nor solid, unquestionable fact. Unfortunately, I have been presented with a few such facts, and this is how I believe the situation to stand.''

Finally, he chose that exact moment to meet my stare, and I returned it with all the intensity I could muster. Gritting my teeth as another wave of anger assaulted me, I began to walk towards Holmes with no real thought as to why I would do so. ''Then explain it to me. I see all you see, yet I cannot fathom how you could possibly come to such a conclusion. For one, you look perfectly fine, perhaps a shade paler then usual, but that is to be expected considering for the past three weeks you have eaten only soup and drank only water.''

My outburst had the most odd effect on Holmes, I do not believe I have ever in my many years of sharing rooms with the man ever seen him recoil almost in fear at my words, no matter how high I raised my voice, and now I found I could not stop.

''You sat in a room with the curtains half-closed, and yes, you did appear to suffer some discomfort, although Holmes, if you were a victim of vampirism, wouldn't you have been reduced to dust? I put your discomfort down to lack of any real nutrition and lack of movement, not vampirism!''

He attempted to cut me off, although the attempt was much in vain as I continued to voice what was on my mind, each word tainted with emotion I simply could not hold in check. 'No Holmes! I will not stand here and willingly listen to you trying to explain the after-effects of concussion and your poor eating habits in such a poor manner!''

He stopped as though he had completely given up, and I took the opportunity to voice the real reason for reacting in such a way, pacing up and down as I did so. ''Three weeks Holmes! I cared for you for three whole weeks, only stopping an hour at a time to ensure I was well enough to do so! I bathed you, kept your condition stable! Watched you stop breathing, watched your body still, and my blood ran cold with horror as I found that was all I could possibly do! Watch!''

''I appreciate your efforts Watson, I do indeed. I know for a fact I do not tell you enough, and I know I am blessed indeed to be able to call you not only my biographer, but my trusted companion. If it were not for your efforts, I would have surely expired long before now. For this, and for many more things; too many more things, you have my most humble thanks.''

At this, I paused mid-step in astonishment. Occasionally, Holmes might feel the need to express his thanks at having me by his side, but never before had he gone into such detail when doing so. His sincere expression was perfectly genuine, and I felt my anger drain away as the rain might wash away dirt. My words had obviously wounded him, and I felt a much deserved stab of guilt. I could not help but smile weakly. Today was indeed the day of many firsts.

''With those honest words said, I repeat my earlier question. Would you be so kind as to help me with an experiment of sorts?''

Despite my thorough objection to his absurd theory of vampirism, I sighed heavily and nodded an affirmative. I could never deny the man anything.

''I need a small sample of your blood.''

The bluntness of his statement caught me by surprise, and regardless of my willingness to help, I could not restrain my body from tensing in objection. Before I could think of any reasons to back down, I offered him my hand.

''I fear I must ask one more thing of you before I the incision is made.''

''Whatever you deem necessary Holmes.''

''I must ask you to stand by the door and make the cut yourself. After the cut is made... at the first sign of any unusual reaction on my part, I ask that you flee and lock the door behind you.''

Ah. He really was taking this theory a little seriously for me to give him my full support, but I decided to humour him regardless. I relieved him of the knife and walked purposefully toward the door, only pausing to remove the key as he requested, then spun around on my good leg so that he would be granted a clear view of my actions. The cut was quick, and I do not deny it stung quite badly, but I shrugged it off in favour of watching Holmes. The poor chap really was acting quite odd.

[-]

As the first drop of blood ran down the palm of my hand, I witnessed a strange sight. Holmes suddenly stood, his face extraordinarily pale, illuminated by the single candle upon his writing desk. His body had become rigid, and his eyes were transfixed upon my self-inflicted palm wound.

''Holmes?''

No reply. He remained where he was, how he was, eyes wide, stance way too stiff to be considered comfortable. I tried again, a little unnerved by his act. Obviously, he was seeking revenge for my scorn of his theories in the most appropriate fashion possible. He always did have quite the dramatic flare in him, and I felt my anger slowly returning to me.

''Holmes, come now old boy. Drop this pointless act.''

He was completely still, head tipped to the side inquisitively, bowed slightly, giving me the impression that he had begun to analyse me whilst intimidating me at the same time. I was ashamed to admit, his tactics really were working quite wonderfully. I made to move, only to find that as I took a step backwards to exit the room, he mechanically took a step forwards, scowling as he did so, as if my move had offended him somehow. I mirrored his expression with a frown of my own, then decided to take another step, this time forwards, expecting him to do the same in reverse. Instead of taking one step backwards, he took two large strides forwards, until he was a little less then two metres in front of me, his lip curled upwards on one side in a truly aggressive leer.

''Holmes? Really, you can stop now, you have made your point quite clear-''

He cut me off with a low growling noise from the back of his throat, and to my horror, my eyes met his for the first time, and that was when the alarm bells in the back of my mind began to command my attention. I had always secretly admired the silvery tones of his eyes, for never in my life had I encountered a human with eyes such as his. Amongst the eye colours of the human race, the most common colour was brown, hazel, then green, then blue. Grey eyes came after that, but silver? They really were quite extraordinary.

Now, as we stood in front of the other, I felt the colour drain from my face as I looked to examine them once more, only to find that instead of being completely silver with subtle slivers of grey, they were now rimmed with an incredibly beautiful hue of bright-violet. I involuntarily took two steps back, his words ringing loud and clear in my mind. Holmes took another step forwards, and as I recalled his exact words, my eyes lowered to his still leering mouth and the fangs which protruded over his bottom lip.

_''After the cut is made... at the first sign of any unusual reaction on my part, I ask that you flee and lock the door behind you.''_

Without warning, he smiled almost coyly, _teasingly_, revealing the full extent of the teeth I had seen before. Two rows of them, all razor sharp, white and gleaming, wet from his saliva. I stood trembling, paralysed with pure fear. His words echoed once more.

_''Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You have heard me say as much on many occasions before now, but I can hardly think of a situation that it is more suited to.''_

Vampirism? I no longer had any doubt it my mind. I bolted for the door, not looking to see if he had followed me, not looking to see the horrifying expression on his face. Once outside, I slammed it shut and hastily locked it, sweat pouring down my neck. I could hear him moving on the other side, and if I didn't know any better, I would have been willing to bet that he was pacing after discovering some new development in his most recent case. Everything went silent for a moment, then I almost jumped in fright when I heard his voice.

''Watson? What happened?''

I reached to unlock the door, but found I could not touch the key for fear of what lay on the other side. I decided to reply, although I was completely shaken and my voice reflected this fact.

''Holmes? Is that you?''

Another moment of silence, then I heard a retching sound. Apparently, Holmes was vomiting.

''Yes, yes it is me Doctor... Tell me, what happened?''

I hesitated, not wanting to recall the sights I had just witnessed. I doubted I would ever sleep peacefully again. My heart hammered against my ribcage, and I thought it terribly ironic how at seeing Holmes' conclusion, it would react in such a way whilst Holmes' own would remain still for the same reason.

''I think your theory may be well placed after all.''

''I am glad you finally think so, although I struggle to recall the events that led to your change of view? Tell me Watson, how did you come to be on the other side of this locked door? I recall telling you to flee if I reacted in any other way then the usual?''

''Holmes you...'' I hesitated again, panicking as I recalled his taunting expression, violet-grey eyes and a shark's grin. I felt dizzy, and leant heavily against the bannister.

''Yes?''

''You... You changed Holmes. Your eyes... your posture... your very nature! Holmes, you had... You had fangs, and not just two! I fled the moment you approached me, but your approach Holmes! It was almost as if you were toying with me!''

Unsurprisingly, another silence followed, although this one reigned heavy and thick. When he did finally speak, guilt drown his words, making his voice small and slightly submissive; a shocking comparison to the creature I had faced not five minutes ago.

''Are you... That is to say... Did I hurt you Watson?''

''No, you did not Holmes, but you scared me something awful!''

My hand hovered over the door handle, and I debated whether it would be wise to look upon him so soon after my fright. My heart had not slowed much.

''Should I open the door Holmes?''

A heavy thud, a French curse and then a hasty reply brought my answer, although I could not bring myself to smile at the familiarity of his voice.

''Heavens no Watson! I cannot speak to you face to face until we are sure of my condition, and neither of us is knowledgeable enough in this area of expertise to properly formulate an effective plan of action! I simply cannot risk your well-being!''

''But Holmes-''

''No, I refuse it!''

''Then what do you propose we do?'' I shot back, anger quickly distilling my fear. Surely he did not mean to spend the remaining hours of the night locked forcefully in his room, facing this alone? His answer did nothing to calm my mind.

''I know not what to do.''

I watched the handle turn, and much to my alarm, realised he was testing his restraints. For some unknown reason, I placed my hand upon my side of the handle, just to be close to him in some form. Suddenly, an idea came to mind.

''Holmes?''

No answer, yet I felt the resistance upon the door handle, telling me he was still grasping it from the other side. I tried a different approach.

''Sherlock, answer me. I believe I know of somebody who might be able to help us.''

If he reacted at my use of his chosen first name, he made no sound to show it. Ironically, I ignored him ignoring me, and continued voicing my idea.

''Before I sold my practise and before I knew you were still living, several of my clients referred me to a spiritual healer by the name of Miss Sylvia, a person whom they swore by. Deciding to take my chances as my wife had recently passed away, I humoured my curiosity by paying her a visit. If nothing else, I thought it would stem my black mood. At first, I believed her ramblings to be total nonsense, especially as she told me with much confidence that you were not as dead as I believed you to be. Upon hearing this information, I bid the lady a very good day, and never returned. I do believe I should pay the good woman a visit and explain the situation to her. Perhaps she can be of some help.''

Still, Holmes refused to respond. With a heavy sigh and an equally heavy heart, I spoke once again, this time to bid Holmes farewell.

''Miss Sylvia should still be awake, the hour isn't late. Stay exactly where you are Holmes! I will hopefully be back soon.''

When he spoke, I knew his despair, for it was remarkably evident by the fact he chose to respond at all.

''Do hurry back Watson. I am not feeling my best...''

[-]

Once I had alerted Miss Hudson that Holmes wasn't feeling himself and that he should not be disturbed for any matter, regardless of what the matter involved, I stepped out onto the now empty street and hailed a hansom. My trip to Miss Sylvia's place of residence was as silent as the night itself, and it began to snow heavily. I shuddered as the harsh cold penetrated my winter clothes, and could not help but feel a strange sense of impending doom at the tranquillity of the usually busy roads.

Broken thoughts echoed within my mind over the events of the evening so far. Time and time again, I would receive images of him almost looming over me, even though we were still some metres apart when I chose when I fled. Against my better senses, I chose to willingly analyse what I remembered of him.

There was no question as to what he had now become, it was the question of what he would become because of his recent.. ailment that constantly worried my mind. I recalled the change was almost instant after he had lain eyes on my blood; how could he possibly continue his work when a fair share of the crime scenes he was called to analyse involved murder?

I closed my eyes, attempting to block out the harsh cold of the weather outside, but instead found an image of his changed eyes, cold, calculating but somehow oddly alluring, staring back at me in my mind. I felt as though they were examining my very soul, and was suddenly self-conscious.

The entire cab ride took little over ten minutes, an after paying the driver and asking him to wait, I entered Miss Sylvia's store, still amazed at the sheer volume of assorted jars and trinkets that lined all four walls. Miss Sylvia in question was sat upon a cosy cloth-buffet at the back of the store, dressed in an assortment of shawls and scarves. She was an unusually small woman, and walked hunched over with the assistance of a walking staff of about five foot. Her appearance might have been comical somehow, if it weren't for her gentle yet stern face and the eye patch that covered her left eye.

''Doctor John Hamish Watson.''

Her strange voice croaked slightly, and I found it quite unnerving. She stood, revealing her full height of four foot, and shook her staff at me. I had regarded this staff with curiosity before; the first and last time we had spoken, several small silver baubles and bells had hung from the top, jingling whenever moved. It appeared as though she had added a cats tail and a small length of rope to the décor.

''I have been expecting you. Let us go to your creature.''

I stood still, her choice of words provoking my protectiveness of Holmes. I coughed, then stood straight, too focussed on the task at hand to enquire into how she could possibly know of my friend's troubles. ''Mister Sherlock Holmes is in desperate need of your assistance, if you are willing to give it Miss Sylvia.''

Her eye twinkled in amusement, her breathing painfully heavy. I suspected she was very ill, although her manner and energy told me otherwise. The woman confused me to no end.

''The creature requires my assistance? It is no wonder, no wonder at all. It is indeed quite a predicament your friend has found himself in, is it not?''

I nodded stiffly as she made her way past me. I followed, choosing not to answer.

[-]

The return ride to Baker Street was completed in a heavy silence. Miss Sylvia had chosen to sit directly opposite me, and regarded me thoughtfully during the duration of our trip. She only spoke once throughout, and it came as our cab came to a stop outside of 221B.

''You will have to make a difficult choice tonight, Doctor John Hamish Watson.''

I said nothing, paid the driver, then opened the door to our shared rooms for our guest. I expected Miss Sylvia to find some difficulty with the stairs leading up to our sitting room, and was much surprised when she, despite her hunched stature, climbed them as quickly as I.

As I had requested, Holmes had remained in his room throughout the trip, and had made no attempt to escape. I had no doubt in mind he did possess the skills to eventually find a way to leave his room, but I felt guilty as I felt glad he has chosen to avoid me. As if he could sense my thoughts, I could hear his sorrowful music, played lovingly from his violin. Miss Sylvia sat down heavily in my usual armchair, so I reluctantly took Holmes', blatantly ignoring the fact that it was not as well worn as my own and smelt strongly of tobacco smoke, his own unique scent and something else which was distinctly chemical. I took what comforts it offered reluctantly, and then turned my attentions to Miss Sylvia.


	4. Chapter 3: Tit or Tat? This or That?

Even more reviews! Hurray! Thanks for taking the time to give me feedback, not only are you helping fix errors, but you're giving me more motivation to squeeze in more writing into my schedule!

**Uncanny-dreamer: **Ah I know what you mean -_- I do love a good AU fic with vampires though, helps redeem the crap that's shown on TV XD Thank you very much, I was actually nervous about submitting this fic .

**Vidar:** Here is a fourth chapter for you, hope you enjoy it as much as the others =]

**Sno-oki:** Totally understand what you mean there, its why I hardly ever point out mistakes to other people .

**Excel-chan:** Intense is good, glad to hear I managed to fulfil what I was going for XD

Nan: I'm glad you think so =] Thank you for the review ^_^

**Kaiho Neko: **Oh you all know he really is a creature at heart =3

**Hunter of Darkness:** Ah I tried to get this written as soon as I could, but... exams suck -_-

Author's Notes: Now updated with chapter 3! This chapter begins from Holmes' point of view, but switches to Watson's point of view a little way through. As such, this will be named chapter 3 and not chapter 2B, as this chapter is not entirely in Holmes' point of view.

Tit or tat, this or that?

[-]

Holmes' Point of View

I was unsure as to where my certainty originated from, but I was most definitely sure the room was spinning, despite not being able to see or move my own body. My last sight was of Watson drawing my letter-blade over his palm and the red drops of life-blood that followed soon after, pulled by the all-commanding force of gravity. I shuddered suddenly, that is, if a mind could shudder.

''Holmes?''

I heard Watson's voice, echoing, rebounding from the walls of my mind, and suddenly, all at the same time, I felt an unfamiliar feeling wash over me, a sensation so powerful I was loathe to give it up willingly. I tried to answer, yet it appeared as though the power of speech had been stolen from me, along with my ability to move or see. How strange.

''Holmes, come now old boy. Drop this pointless act.''

Again, the feeling caressed me, possessed me, clouded my senses, and if I were a weaker man I might have been tempted to completely give myself over. What act? As far as I could tell, I certainly wasn't moving, but that sensation...

''Holmes? Really, you can stop now, you have made your point quite clear-''

Panic, almost blind panic, and again, that sensation, many times stronger this time around... I felt as though I were floating. But why? To what purpose? My mind swam as I tried and failed to categorise the sensation which repeatedly assaulted me, beckoning me towards... what exactly?

Without warning, my memories came crashing back down around me, open to my perusal, and suddenly, all at once, I remembered everything. My Watson was in danger, and it was I who had put him in such a position. Another wave of that feeling, more questions followed, as did my sense of sight. What was this?

I staggered and control over my body returned to me like a child would return a toy which held no new interest to him. The 'unnamed' sensation was dragged from my grasp, and at once I lamented its absence, although I know not why. The room span, and I crashed heavily into the writing desk to steady myself.

''Watson? What happened?''

''Holmes? Is that you?'

Somehow I managed to throw open the bedroom window before I vomited.

''Yes, yes it is me Doctor... Tell me, what happened?'' I gasped, wincing at the foul taste of a combination which was my last meal and stomach acid.

''I think your theory may be well placed after all.''

My blood, if my heart were still beating, would run cold. I remembered being sat down before I blacked out, when I regained control, I was stood up, closer to the door then I should have been. Swallowing, the entire situation spanned across my memory, the only reasonable thing left to do would be to fill in the blanks it presented.

''I am glad you finally think so, although I struggle to recall the events that led to your change of view? Tell me Watson, how did you come to be on the other side of this locked door? I recall telling you to flee if I reacted in any other way then the usual?''

''Holmes you...''

Hesitation. Hesitation and blatant fear of recollection. My own fears were growing rapidly.

''Yes?''

''You... You changed Holmes. Your eyes... your posture... your very nature! Holmes, you had... You had fangs, and not just two! I fled the moment you approached me, but your approach Holmes! It was almost as if you were toying with me!''

_And what a toy you would make, dear, dear Watson... _

I froze, and, completely by chance, my gaze caught my own weak reflection in the window-glass, silver-violet eyes staring back tauntingly. Had that thought really crossed my mind? It must have done so, for it was whispered in a darker, lustful version of my own voice!

I shook my head violently, then turned my gaze towards the door. The extent of my affliction was beginning to present itself more prominently; my own thoughts were beginning to betray me.

''Are you... That is to say... Did I hurt you Watson?''

''No, you did not Holmes, but you scared me something awful!''

I listened to his troubled words with a raised eyebrow, relieved to know that I had not harmed him in any way.

''Should I open the door Holmes?''

My hand slipped from the window ledge in surprise, and I cursed automatically in another language as my shoulder collided with the edge of my wall. How could he possibly suggest such a thing, knowing what I have become?

''Heavens no Watson! I cannot speak to you face to face until we are sure of my condition, and neither of us is knowledgeable enough in this area of expertise to properly formulate an effective plan of action! I simply cannot risk your well-being!''

''But Holmes-''

''No, I refuse it!''

''Then what do you propose we do?''

Anger. Anger, in this case, was better then fear. I would much prefer him be angry with me than fear me as he now did. It warmed me a little to hear the open concern in his voice, and I found myself relaxing slightly. Thank god he didn't fear me as completely as I first thought he might. My gaze found my reflection once more, and I found myself recoiling at my image staring back, head cocked to the side, grinning wolfishly at me.

''I know not what to do.''

I crossed over to the door, and took the handle into my hand. There was no way I could know my own strength for certain, so I deemed I necessary to see if it was within my power to force the door open and put my Watson at further risk. I smiled when suddenly, I was met with a further opposing resistance, and I knew that the good Doctor held the other side.

''Holmes?''

I did not answer for fear I would betray my deepest emotions in my time of weakness. The good Doctor need not know of how his gesture made me feel.

''Sherlock, answer me. I believe I know of somebody who might be able to help us.''

Somewhere, I dimly registered the fact that he had spoken my first name. Gritting my teeth, I rested my forehead against the wood of the door, uncertain as to how to respond.

''Before I sold my practise and before I knew you were still living, several of my clients referred me to a spiritual healer by the name of Miss Sylvia, a person whom they swore by. Deciding to take my chances as my wife had recently passed away, I humoured my curiosity by paying her a visit. If nothing else, I thought it would stem my black mood. At first, I believed her ramblings to be total nonsense, especially as she told me with much confidence that you were not as dead as I believed you to be. Upon hearing this information, I bid the lady a very good day, and never returned. I do believe I should pay the good woman a visit and explain the situation to her. Perhaps she can be of some help.''

Miss Sylvia... The name rang no sense of familiarity, and I felt overwhelmed with putting so heavy a burden on my Watson's shoulders. It was true that his deductions were often much too short of the metaphorical mark, yet I made no sound of protest at his deducing that we were in dire need of outside help.

''Miss Sylvia should still be awake, the hour isn't late. Stay exactly where you are Holmes! I will hopefully be back soon.''

I swallowed my emotion, realising that I may not have the chance to speak to him for a while, yet when I did so, my voice was pitifully small and weak in comparison with my usual confidence and strength.

''Do hurry back Watson. I am not feeling my best...''

[-]

As soon as I heard him take leave, I lay down down wearily on my bed, the events of the evening echoing endlessly around the room, conflicting painfully with my sense of reason and logic.

Although I had not witnessed the change itself, I had felt it as plainly as I felt my bedsheets beneath me. But what was that feeling that so completely consumed me?

I closed my eyes in a feeble attempt to categorise that rapturous sensation that had earlier utterly commanded me in my mind. It strongly resembled my persistent need of cocaine, the need that has often relentlessly chased my better judgement away, yet that need of substance cannot possibly hold a candle to the sensation I felt caress my mind. Without knowing just what that feeling was, I knew it was dangerous, foolish even to crave even without any actual action, yet I could not resist doing so.

After many fruitless minutes of restless thought, I could lay no longer, and instead took to pacing my room. I estimated that my Watson had been absent from our rooms for approximately eight minutes, yet for some reason, his absence weighed heavily upon both my conscience and heart.

In spite of Watson's writing of my detached methods of analysis and deduction, I did indeed have a heart; I merely chose to wear mine buttoned within my inside pocket rather than on my sleeve as the vast majority of the populace have chosen. To hide my affections from him for as long as I have...

With that in mind, I removed my violin from the writing chair, then walked to the window. To my annoyance, my reflection, even as weak as it now was, remained smiling that god-awful smile, and I knew that the events of tonight marked the beginning of... what exactly? As if it could sense my thoughts, my reflection winked at me. So this is what it felt like to hate oneself.

I lifted my Stradivarius to my neck, watching with much curiosity as my mirror-image mimicked me; albeit slower, with slitted eyes and a leer. Not removing my gaze from my own darker image, I lifted the bow and began to play into the night.

[-]

Watson's Point of View

''You are now presented with three different choices, Doctor Watson, although before I enlighten you, you _must _fully understand the situation both you and your friend have found yourselves in.''

''Perhaps I should be the one enlightening you Miss-''

''I am already aware of the situation.''

Her reply was sharper then I had expected, yet I couldn't bring myself to interrupt her again. I had no idea how she came to know of what I had only come to know an hour ago, yet I stemmed my curiosity. She coughed; the sound rattled painfully in her throat, yet she paid it no mind.

''The first thing you must know is this; there is no cure for your friends affliction. It is pointless to attempt to find one. There have been many before in your situation, all of them have failed; locked away in their chemistry labs, or lost abroad in the company of witchdoctors.''

I tried to suppress the shivers of horror I felt, yet failed. Miss Sylvia ignored me.

''Your friend has been bitten by a vampire, and a weak, freshly turned one at that. I have no doubt in mind that your creature-''

''Mister Sherlock Holmes.''

''-Mister Holmes was the vampire's first or second victim.''

Running my hand through my now thoroughly dishevelled hair, I could not help but inquire into Holmes' state. The worry in my heart was increasing with every moment that passed, and I could not totally deny that some of it went beyond the typical bonds of friendship.

''I have heard many stories concerning this... 'vampirism', but none whatsoever have mirrored what Holmes is going through. If I hadn't taken note of his lack of pulse, and not witnessed... a 'change' when he laid eyes upon blood, I would be ready to bet high stakes that he was merely ill.''

Miss Sylvia chucked, shaking her head as though I had said something incredibly naive or childish. I really was begging to resent the woman with a passion. Even as she sat there explaining the situation with an abnormal amount of calm, her superior attitude irritated me to no end. She carried on speaking as if I weren't an audience to her words, no matter how crucial they were.

''This is a part of the choice you will need to make. The first choice is this.''

I nodded, resigning myself to a much restrained silence.

''Your friend remains as he is now; plagued by his inner demons, haunted by desires he will never be able to give name nor satisfaction to. Your friend will be living, or unliving, a half-life, not human, yet not vampire. He will forever dwell on the middle ground; caught off guard by whispers of what he would attain if he were to become a full vampire, never sleeping, never satisfied, and all this will be amplified with time. He will be a constant danger to himself and everybody around him; the sight of blood will forcefully take over his body, yet he will remain 'human' with 'human' weaknesses. If he does not possess the will and mental strength to live with such a curse, he will eventually give in, as all do, and feed from another. He will become a full vampire.''

I sat with my mouth agape, the sound of Holmes' violin ghosting my senses as I sat in what can only be described as utter shock. Was Holmes' really experiencing such terrible things, even as we sat speaking of them? I closed my eyes, the information Miss Sylvia provided seeping into my consciousness, sinking in as a spoon would in a jar of honey. Miss Sylvia coughed again, then once again continued on as though I weren't even there.

''Your second option is this. You, his friend and the person he trusts and relies on most of all, let him drink from you willingly. Mister Sherlock Holmes will become a creature of the night and gain all of their strengths. He will walk amongst the shadows as though it were he that commanded them and his mental powers will increase significantly. His physical strength will increase tenfold. He will have full control over himself; fatigue will never wear him down, and he will no longer be blessed with mortality. Indeed, he will only age if he wishes it himself. Wounds that would kill a regular man would do nothing against him, for his body will become even more self-preserving then our own. ''

Compared to the first option, this one sounded much more... 'humane', if that word could even be applied to this situation. I could hardly believe that this were happening, a day ago, I would have openly laughed at somebody speaking of vampires in such a serious tone! But to think that Holmes might acquire these attributes... it made my blood freeze in my veins. I was desperate to question further; the questions themselves were being repeated over and over in my mind like a personal chant, yet I forced myself to wait.

''He will also gain all of their weaknesses; the sight of the cross will enrage him, holy water will blister his skin; scar even if exposed for too long. He will not sleep easily during the night, and will become a darker soul around violence and bloodshed, revealing the shadows of his soul. If he has not drank in the past week, the sun will slowly begin to irritate him, until he is reduced to dust.''

I shivered violently. Of course there would be downsides to such an affliction, even children knew of the weaknesses of such... people, even if they believed the stories to be false like I had. Even if he would be burdened with such weaknesses, it would hardly compare to if I were to leave him as he were now. He would surely drive himself mad.

''This is not all, for half of this situation openly concerns you, Doctor.''

This puzzled me greatly. Beyond the obvious weekly dose of my blood, I could not imagine how else I could be openly effected by sharing rooms with Sherlock Holmes, vampire or not. I took the risk of ridicule, and asked what she meant.

''What could you possibly mean?''

Miss Sylvia sat back in my chair with an even sterner expression. The amused twinkle in her eye that I had seen earlier had vanished, and her tone was grave.

''The bite of a vampire has two possible effects. If a vampire bites a human, he or she has two choices. The vampire can either turn the human into one of it's kind, or feed.''

Still I could not see how this would effect my beyond the obvious.

''Then if I were to allow Holmes to bite me, I wouldn't turn into one also?''

''It is not as simple as that Doctor. If the vampire creates another, the newly created vampire must feed to fully be changed. After the new vampire has fed, the creature is free to continue it's unlife in whatever way it wishes. It will even retain the personality and memories of it's past life. Essentially, they will be as they were before they were bitten, except with the added strengths and weaknesses that vampirism brings. However... A human that is bitten by a vampire with the intention of feeding becomes a slave to that vampires will. A human agent for the very monstrosity that preyed upon them.''

My eyes widened in shock, and I wondered how many more times I would be reduced to such a state over the course of the night. I dearly wished this were all a nightmare, yet I dare not pinch myself in case I did not wake.

''What do you mean?''

Miss Sylvia stared at me, as if trying to read my thoughts, gauge my personality from my reactions. The sound of Holmes' violin continued on into the night, it's tune much more sorrowful then when we had first entered Baker Street. Apparently, I wasn't the only one to be feeling depressed.

''The vampire will be able to communicate with the bitten human telepathically whenever the vampire wishes to do so, although when communicating during the day, the creature will find it difficult regardless of the time it drank. It can invade dreams, Doctor, alter memories, physically control the bitten victim on a whim. The bitten human will find it exceedingly difficult to resist the will of his or her new master. Vampires, Doctor John Hamish Watson, are cold-blooded creatures with little pity or humanity. What is worse is the fact that being bitten does not add to the darkness of ones soul; it draws out the regrets, the vices, the hate, jealousy and disappointment of the one bitten. If you choose this option, whatever darkness consumes your friends soul will make itself known, if only to you. I cannot promise the result will be favourable for either of you.''

If I weren't feeling depression before, I was feeling utter despair now. Never had I imagined the effects of keeping Holmes... 'nourished' to be so devastating. If I were to let Holmes drink from me, he would be able to read my thoughts as though they were a page of a book, walk amongst my dreams as though they were a private stretch of land! I would never find saying no to him an easy task, regardless of the danger involved, regardless of the morality or lack of!

Even with all this in mind, my loyalty began to fight back against my panic. Surely there was a way to make my thoughts and dreams private? Perhaps there was a way to do so! If Holmes did not drink from me, he would eventually seek out a total stranger, by his own will or against it, and put his own safety in jeopardy! Who better to assist Holmes in this manner then I? Miss Sylvia cut across my line of thought quite suddenly, and the words she said left me spluttering for an intelligent response. I did not even hear Holmes' violin cease playing.

''Your third option is to kill Mister Sherlock Holmes, by any means that would work against a mortal. End his suffering, continue with your own life.''

At that moment, a crash and the sound of glass shattering echoed around the sitting room, and without conscious thought, I found myself rushing to Holmes' door. Fumbling with the key, I unlocked the door to find the room empty, snow fluttering in from the broken window. Holmes was gone.


	5. Chapter 4: Snow and Moonlight

Ah my muse has been dancing the night away~

Nans: Ah its difficult to juggle all those factors, then put it into words XD Thank you for the review =]

Vidar:Mhwhaha =] Hope you find this chapter to be as exciting ^-^

Excel-chan: O-o Hellsing? I think I have heard of that anime... maybe I'll go watch o-o

Chapter four is completely from Holmes' point of view and is somewhat shorter then the other chapters so far, enjoy =]

Snow and moonlight.

[-]

Holmes' Point of View

As I continued to play, the snow began to come down much heavier against the window I was using as a mirror, sticking to the glass before sliding down to accumulate on the sill outside. My reflected image continued to leer at me most suggestively as it mimicked my violin-strokes, forcing me to search fruitlessly a deeper level of meaning that I was not even completely certain existed in any shape or form. I found it terribly ironic to watch this 'other' me, and was hopelessly fascinated with the concept of my darkest moments being personified into the being I saw before me; a collection of reflected candlelight beams revealing what lay in the shadows of my own human subconscious. That is, if I could be classed as belonging to the human race.

Of course, the object of my fascination could not yet be given a name, and somehow, I doubted even I could ever create an adequate title for the collection of sins and vices that image represented. Somehow, I knew Watson had returned to our rooms accompanied by another, yet how I could possibly tell these things still remained unknown to me. I could not raise my hopes that the individual that accompanied him back would be of any use.

It was as the snowfall grew heavier that I first observed the fact that I was being watched. By chance, my glance flickered away from that of my two dimensional counterpart for only a moment, yet it was enough to look upon the figure of a man who had taken to sitting on the roof opposite my window. I instantly ceased my playing; I may bother the entire set of rooms and perhaps even the residents of the adjoining rooms with my music, yet I would detest to having any audience other than my Watson. The music is I play is an accurate reflection of my mood, yet the sounds made only create half the perfect picture. Never before had I seen somebody so blatantly intrude on my privacy in this manner. My reflection laughed at me soundlessly.

''Mister Sherlock Holmes.''

Not a question, a confident statement, spoken in a remarkably soft tone of voice. Clearly, this individual knew me on some level, and I was determined to find out why he had taken to spying upon me from outside my window.

''Can I help you?''

The man smiled, and though I could not see his eyes for the brim of his hat, I could feel a malicious aura radiating from his very being, a strange... 'pulsing' feeling of such powerful _hate_... I had looked into the eyes of a willing killer on many occasions, yet never had I felt such murderous emotions aimed at the world as the man on the roof projected without restraint of any kind. Such blatant objection to humanity I had never witnessed before now.

At my question, the man brought one hand to the brim of his hat, revealing his eyes for the first time. As soon as he did, I knew I was facing the man I had been relentlessly pursuing through the back streets of London some three weeks before. Yellow eyes stared into my soul as I faced the source of my own vampirism in the dramatic glare of the moonlight. He was incredibly pale; his gaunt face looking even more so in the moonlight that bathed him. He was clothed in all black which could be compared to my own choice of daily attire, and on his head he wore a fine example of a top hat, completed by a single band of red ribbon.

''I believe you can.''

His voice remained soft and soothing, an exquisite contradiction to the warning bells echoing loudly in my mind. It possessed a strange likeness to silk; smooth, perhaps even somewhat musical, betraying nothing of his obvious hate towards a source I could not yet know of. The tone created yet another warped contradiction for me to ponder; commanding, threatening, powerfully possessing just the right quantity of persuasion not even I had yet mastered fully.

Something nameless in me stirred, and somehow, I refused to be afraid of him, regardless of how terrifying he should have looked to me. I had always been painfully defiant throughout my youth. Apparently, quite a bit remained with me.

''Who are you and how may I be of service?''

The man lowered the tip of his hat to cover his eyes once more, until I could see only one distinguishing feature: a terrible smile; the light of the moon reflecting morbidly from each individual tooth. It was then that I noticed he was in possession of only one canine. A singular puncture from a single tooth, and the mystery of my wound completed itself quite nicely.

''My name is of no importance... well... not yet at least, and that is where you enter the picture, Mister Sherlock Holmes. You, along with a few select individuals of my choosing, are required for a task I wish to fulfil.''

''And I do not suppose I am to know of this task? What pray tell, happens if I refuse?''

My words only served to widen his grin even further.

''I regret to inform you that you forfeited any choice you might have had once you began to chase me. You see... you, Mister Sherlock Holmes, are an error. You should not exist as you are; I should have killed you the moment I realised that in my rage, I could not control the choice between vampirism and slavery. Of course, I had no clue as to your identity when I first bit you, and now that I am fully aware of who you are and who you choose to accompany you, I intend to take full advantage of the unique situation that has been laid at my feet.''

Just like that, a large piece of the puzzle was handed to me, oh but if only I knew where in this giant jigsaw it fit! And oh, the fiend knew of Watson, which in turn only made matters more complex! What an annoyingly complex series of events! My violin hung loosely in my hand as I tried to catalogue said events thus far, but the man sat upon the roof interrupted my line of thought!

''If however you feel that it is still within your power to resist, I do not need to remind you of the gentleman you share rooms with, nor your good landlady. It would be a shame indeed for them to suffer as a result of your own incompetence.''

Although I am proud to say my appearance betrayed nothing, my anger flared instantly and most violently at the man's carelessly veiled threat. Both Miss Hudson and Watson were aware of the near-constant danger of having myself as a tenant and associate, yet I could not bare the thought of this vile creature laying hands upon them. Unfortunately, as unbearable as the thought was, I could not stop my response any more then I could stop the rising of the sun.

''You are a fool to come to my lodgings and demand such things, vampire! Whatever task you must accomplish, it can be done without my involvement!''

''You brand me a vampire as though I should resent what I am Mister Holmes. I take it by the sheer uncertainty towards me you have not fed yet? You may sound confident, may even feel it to some extent, but your half-life eyes question! I repeat, you have no choice in the matter. You will accompany me to a secure location, whether it be willingly or forcibly is the choice I present you with. This is your last chance.''

Half-life? Forcibly? I do not deny his choice of words brought forth some curiosity on my part.

''I do believe I have already made myself quite clear.''

''Ah... but then you leave me no choice.''

The man removed his hand from his hat and lifted it up in front of him so that it was level with me. I could not possibly dream of the reason for such a gesture, and could not help but watch with both interest and caution. His open hand slowly began to close; the fingers curling slightly, giving the impression that he were grasping thin air.

I found I could no longer grasp my violin; much to my distress, it dropped uselessly to the floor, creating a painful twang of a noise as the impact disturbed the strings. I was suddenly yanked forwards against my will, my body smashing through the glass of my window effortlessly, until I found I was suspended in mid-air with the creatures hand tight about my throat with no idea as to how it were possible. He was by no means careful; his nails bit painfully into my skin and I found I could not breath. I heard Watson's footfall some steps outside my door then the fumbling of a key. The man grinned.

''And away we go.''

The door to my room opened, banging against the wall as it rebounded. I could not see Watson as my back was to him, but I could imagine the look upon his face with ease. The poor fellow did care somewhat deeply for me, although I do not know why as I have made myself completely unlovable in every sense of the word. By now, the lack of oxygen was making my mind spin. More footfall, and I realised he has approached my broken window.

''Good evening Doctor Watson.''

''Holmes!''

His voice was filled with terror at the sight of me hanging limply from the vampires grasp, and oh how it hurt to hear, even more so then the fiends grasp upon my throat. I wanted to tell him to run, to fetch his revolver, to escape – yet the words never left my mouth as the oxygen could not leave my lungs to produce a sound of any kind.

''Not quite.''

My last thought was one filled with dread. My enemy had a sense of humour.

[-]

Authors Note: Okay guys, the 'M' rating applies from here on out. Just thought I would let you know =]


	6. Chapter 5: Know Thy Enemy

Another update here =]

Sno-Oki: Oh I do love a thick plot : ]

Kaiho Neko: I know, I know... I'm sure Holmes will chase me around the metaphorical room once all this is over with T_T

Uncanny-dreamer: I'm very glad you think so, I was tired with the typical vampire stuff so I twisted said stuff around to make it better XD Oho, you have only found out half of the story about the single fang =D

Nans: Here is the first 'M'ish chapter that you have been awaiting! Hope you like it XD

Hunter of Darkness: Heating up? I've had to put my ceiling fan on XD Thanks for the review!

This chapter is written from the good Doctors point of view, and follows on from chapter 3.

Know Thy Enemy

[-]

Watson's Point of View

At first, I could see nothing immediately wrong other then the broken window. The room was as I had left it, unremarkable by my usual standards, as only a room belonging to Sherlock Holmes could be.

It was as I walked forwards, stricken by panic, that I noticed another oddity. Holmes' violin lay upside down on the floor, its bow laying closer to the window. As if the night wasn't unusual enough, I knew for a fact that the man in question would never leave this particular possession there in such a careless way.

As I drew closer, I felt an odd chill; one not created by the night air nor its weather. I thought it odd how he would choose such a dramatic exit, really, if he needed to get out of the room for some reason or another, the least he could have done would be to call to me so that I might unlock the door for him.

I followed this line of thought further, my next question being that if he had needed to get out of this room for any particular reason, why hadn't he simply unlocked the window instead of smashing it as he had done?

Finally, I stood over the violin and picked it up. Luckily, it was not damaged in any way and I sighed in relief, yet when I looked up once more towards the window, I very nearly dropped it to the floor as Holmes had. Sat on the roof opposite was cloaked man, and he had Holmes by the throat with one hand! I could not contain my horror and surprise at having stumbled across this scenario, for the stranger was slight in frame yet possessed an astounding amount of strength!

''Holmes!''

The stranger chuckled darkly as I watched Holmes struggle to remain conscious, and I felt an astounding amount of hate rush through my veins. As I reached for my service revolver, Holmes passed out. The blackguard then cast him aside on the roof next to where he were sat, then spoke mockingly.

''Not quite.''

Unbeknownst to Holmes, I forever kept my revolved at my side, even when we breakfasted together, even when I slept at night; not that I would ever allow Holmes to know or ever give him the opportunity to deduce it so. I was well aware of the darkness that thrives in a damaged soul, and I am almost ashamed to admit I let it flow freely once I was pointing it in the strangers direction. The cold steel fit into my hand perfectly, as though it had been specifically made for my hand, and my hand alone.

''Return him at once, or I shall not hesitate to put a bullet in you!''

The man removed his hat with his free hand and yellow eyes met my own. I should have been surprised, in fact, I was surprised that his nature did not surprise me. Instead, I pulled back the hammer easily with my thumb as a warning, my only thoughts concerning Holmes' s safety. The man man no further moves, yet his eyes narrowed dangerously.

''You do not fear what I am, Human?''

''Not when you forced your affliction upon my partner, no, I should think not. Return him to these rooms at once. I have shot men less deserving then you, fiend.''

At this, much to my anger, the stranger threw his head back and laughed, revealing a full set of human teeth, as well as a single fang. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that it was this man who had bitten my greatest friend.

''Your bullets will do nothing, human swine! You will only provoke my wrath!''

The devil must have taken control of my senses that night, for I disregarded his words in favour of firing three shots at close range. To my horror, I could not suppress a smile nor the feeling of satisfaction as all three hit home, spraying the pure whiteness of the snow with unsightly splatters of crimson gore. The man made no attempt to dodge, but instead threw his arms out as if to embrace my violence, laughing as he did so. As I watched with wide eyes at the recklessness of my opponent, he regarded me with similar curiosity. Indeed, the man was a monster, for he brushed off his wounds as if they were nothing more then insect bites.

''It does appear as though I am not the only monster to walk the streets this fine night, Doctor Watson! Such unnecessary violence towards a complete stranger!''

His words rang loudly in my ears, and I fired two more shots into his back as he rose to his feet and turned from me. Ignoring my bullets, he lifted Holmes to his feet and kept him there for a moment. I dared not fire the final sixth shot in fear I would hit the wrong target.

''I will not scar his face Doctor, it would be too much of a shame to mar such fine features! This is my gift to you Doctor Watson!''

I could only stand and stare as he took the unconscious Holmes by the front of the collar and yanked downwards with his inhuman strength. The cravat ripped under the strain, and the buttons of the shirt gave way easily, exposing Holmes' pale chest to the still falling snow, and I stood frozen, gun still pointing uselessly at an opponent I could never fell.

''Remember Doctor, it was you that drew blood first! Perhaps your dear... partner... will be willing to take the retaliation blow for you?''

He raised his hand back to the sky dramatically, and in a flash of reflected moonlight, he slashed across Holmes' chest with nails that were more alike to an animals talons then a humans. For the second time that night, blood stained the purity of the snow, yet I could not tear my eyes away from the three deep gashes that now glistened with gore and ripped flesh across Holmes' body.

''Goodnight Doctor Watson!''

I was powerless to intervene as the man hoisted Holmes over his shoulder, blood still dripping morbidly from his other hand. With another fiendish laugh and with the six metre gap between us, he sprinted up the side of the roof with an abnormal amount of speed and then disappeared over the apex.

[-]

Authors Notes: Hoki doki, this is the last of the short chapters, bring on the bigger 3k/4k ones! Cyas!


	7. Chapter 6: All or Nothing

This was far, far too fun to write.

Kaiho Neko: Well this one is 3200 words, but yay anyway XD

Excel-Chan: Ill go check it out =D This update wasn't fast! =D

All or Nothing

-]

As soon as the figure disappeared from sight, my senses returned all at once and I realised what an incredibly stupid thing I had done. It was though even the sight of the vampire brought out the darkness of the mind and soul, and I am afraid to say I had more darkness within me then most. The large gap between the broken window and the roof opposite loomed out in front of me, blocking me from following the man that had taken it upon himself to forcibly remove Holmes from my watch.

Anger was quickly replaced with blind panic as I ran from the room like a man possessed, only stopping to take note of Miss Sylvia's absence. Not taking the time to draw a conclusion as to her whereabouts, I ran to our stairs.

I took two at a time; this proved to be a very bad idea, as in my haste I completely missed a step halfway down and landed at the bottom with a crash which soon had Miss Hudson out of bed and at my side. I had landed hard on my shoulder, yet I refused to let my past misfortunes abroad create another and sprang to my feet. With no explanation, I dashed out into the street without either my coat, cane or hat, my eyes scanning the rooftops for any sign of the fiend. I was not surprised when I arrived at the end of the street quite out of breath and no better informed.

Yet again, I had failed to protect Holmes from the constant danger which dogged his steps wherever he chose to set foot, and now it had come to our home dressed in black, wearing a top hat and shrouded in malice. I was not quick enough, strong enough nor physically able enough to shield him from those who sought to cause him harm, and oh how it pained me to realise that.

Not only was our opponent a vampire, we had next to no information concerning him and I had not the first clue as to how I should go about rescuing my most dearest friend. I did not even know the individual's name!

Panic slowly gave way to dread. What did that blackguard want with Holmes in the first place? How had he managed to lay hands on him from across the gap? Why in the lord's name was this happening to the worlds only consulting detective?

The snowfall began to come down heavier around me, yet I did not feel the chill for my blood still ran cold from the shock of finding Holmes not being able to breath. The night was still, soundless, suffocating in its emptiness. I looked over my shoulder to see Miss Hudson peering out of our doorway, the oil lamp she carried casting the path in front of our hallway in a beautiful golden glow. It was a shame I could not fully appreciate the image it provided; such tranquillity disguising such terrible events, I doubted I would ever rest easy whilst that creature held Holmes in his possession. By now, he would be long gone.

The poor lady had not the first clue as to the events which took place, and I decided there and then that she would remain in this state of obliviousness. There was no need to alert anybody else about the situation. The last thing we needed was to have an information leak somewhere and have Holmes publicly dubbed a vampire!

''Doctor? Whatever are you doing outside in this weather? Do come inside before you catch a chill!''

Miss Hudson waved at me from the doorway, and I found myself slowly walking back to an empty set of rooms, my heart heavy, my mind confused and both my shoulder and leg throbbing terribly.

[-]

I did not sleep at all that night. Soon after my return, Miss Hudson brought up another pot of tea despite the hour being late, then wished me a good night. I found I could not wish for as much. Holmes' absence weighed heavily upon my soul, and I abandoned my own chair in favour of sitting in his as I had done so in Miss Sylvia's company. With the smell of him overpowering the smell of anything else this room provided, I found myself relaxing quite against my will and my mind wandering off into inappropriate territory.

My emotions concerning Holmes were as mixed up and untidy as my writing desk had been earlier, and it was only now, as I sat near the blazing coal fire without him being in the vicinity, that my mind wandered off to attempt to tidy the clutter. I was certain the fiend knew of my love for the man he chose to curse, and the thought filled me with horror. If the man was not above murder, then he was certainly not above blackmail. The entire situation looked to be utterly hopeless; not only did he possess terrific strength, he would be damn-near unkillable. I had only to look into those yellow eyes to see he had a cunning mind, free from guilt and moral values and free from the virtues of humanity. This man could not just break my body, he could break my soul and have my own people condemn me.

I was painfully aware of the laws that governed England concerning inverts, yet I thought such a law ridiculous. How anybody could restrict such a complicated network of emotions in such a way as they had done astounded me. I chuckled darkly, for several of my patients, both respectable men and women, had confided their fears of discovery in me, including a Law Lord of her Majesty's own courts. I was no stranger to the concept of people of the same gender possessing the same level of love for each other as any other in a traditional relationship, yet as I sat bathed in the warm glow of the fire, I felt just as lost as ever.

I had loved Mary Morstan with all of my heart, she was sweet and caring, much much more than I had ever deserved, but it is my firm belief that people are who they choose to be. I loved her, just as I love my dearest friend, yet I would never tell him such as I would only serve to make him feel uncomfortable. I owed it to him to keep his mind free of such burdens.

I poured myself a cup of tea, not letting it cool before taking a large gulp. The hot liquid scalded my tongue and throat, yet I did not stop until the cup was drained entirely. The pain was well deserved; it had been my own weakness that stopped me from pursuing the creature over the rooftops, my fault and mine alone. I had not the first clue as to how to begin searching for Holmes.

With my mouth tingling painfully from the tea, I finally summoned the energy to walk to our bookshelf and remove a large leather-bound book which contained all of our documented tales, both published and private, under the letter 'V'. Studying what we had documented concerning Holmes' new ailment was my intention, yet as I thumbed through the delicate pages, I found nothing which would aid me in the inevitable trials to come.

I had absorbed Miss Sylvia's words earlier, and now recalled them not now for the purpose of aiding Holmes, but to find a way of besting this creature. I had no idea just how accurate her information was, yet I retrieved my notepad and began to write down everything regardless.

Once I had written everything down, I summarised that the man-fiend I would be challenging would be at least five times stronger than myself and possess more willpower then both myself and Holmes combined. The creature would never tire, would never need to sleep or retreat to recover. Normal wounds would harm him in no way whatsoever, and any wounds I did manage to inflict would heal faster than any he inflicted upon me. I had no idea as what what Miss Sylvia meant by 'mental powers', but I wrote it down anyway.

After scanning over the strengths of the creature I was to face, I began to list the fiends weaknesses. The list was surprisingly short; for every two 'strengths' there appeared to be a weakness.

The holy cross would break the calm exterior of the vampire, holy water would create wounds which would not heal as completely as other wounds. He would sleep during the day and be confined to the night. The sun would irritate him over time, and depending on when he last fed could be a potent method of putting the creature down.

My gun had proved to be completely useless; if I were to face such a creature, I would need something a little more... potent.

My eyes strayed to the crossbow hung above the door. It had been a souvenir from one of Holmes' private cases, given to him by a client. It was a magnificent weapon, made of varnished mahogany and tempered steel, forged for hunting and stalking larger game, yet it had never been used. Perhaps its most distinguishing feature was its ability to be folded away; the arms could be folded flush against the shaft and released instantaneously at the flick of a bolt.

It was a particularly strange variation of the typical crossbow, for it fired short, pencil-thin shots, and could fire three of them at once. I had always admired its craftsmanship, yet was never permitted to examine it any closer than from where I stood as it was practically antique and its true value extremely high. Even Holmes was loathe to touch it in fear of damaging it in some fashion.

Reluctantly, I pulled up a chair to stand on and removed it from its hook above the door. It was remarkably light, and I suspected the shaft to be hollow. A closer inspection revealed that it was indeed hollow; the steel cap on the shoulder butt could be removed to store bolts inside, a feature I knew would be most useful when confronting the creature.

Although I possessed no ammunition for the crossbow, I guessed I would be able to make some myself. Holmes would most likely have a heart attack if he knew what I was planning, and this thought brought a smile to my face despite the grave circumstances that forced me to wield it in the first place.

I decided that the easiest material to make the bolts needed would be wood, so I retrieved an old wooden walking cane from near the fireplace and snapped it over my knee into four neat parts. I could feel the hour calling me to bed, yet I refused to listen and poured myself a second cup of tea, making sure to drink it slowly and less recklessly than before. The knife I had cut myself with earlier lay on the table in front of me, still coated with my now-dry blood, and I found myself remembering silver-violet eyes as I took the blade in hand thoughtfully. What if at this very moment, that creature was making Holmes suffer?

I drained the last of my tea and began to carve my ammunition, my thoughts dark and unforgiving.

[-]

By the time I had finished my task, the sun had risen and the usual bustle of the street had begun to awaken. In front of me on the desk lay a stack of bolts, a larger pile of wood shavings and my notes and theories on my opponent. For the entire night I had sat in front of the now-cold fire, crafting my anger and sorrow into the ammunition that I hoped would be enough to bring Holmes back. My treacherous mind constantly span countless blood-filled scenarios, each more terrible and horrific than the last, each one more vivid than I ever thought my brain capable of conjuring.

During the course of the night, I had written an 'urgent' note to Lestrade, requesting his presence at around ten in the morning, and had sent it with one of the irregulars. If anybody could give me clues as to the identity of Holmes' kidnapper, it would be him. I glanced at my watch, noting that I had approximately twenty minutes before Lestrade was due to arrive.

Miss Hudson had entered some half-hour ago with breakfast, and had commented on Holmes' absence, yet not upon the strange bundle of bolts upon our dinning table. I nodded, attempting to keep up my regular cheery appearance, yet as I did so I was again reminded of the situation as an image of a gore-stained Holmes, helpless and at that blackguards mercy, intruded upon my thoughts quite suddenly. Vampires, even in children's stories, were merciless and cold, calculating and a terrible force to be reckoned with. What disturbed me even more was the resemblance to Holmes' usual clue-hunting self. He could be downright brutal in his methods when such an approach was necessary, an I could not help but wonder upon the inevitable changes that would take place within his mind once I made him bite me.

There wasn't one doubt within my heart that Holmes would refuse to drink my blood. Being the stubborn character he is, I predicted that he would attempt to act as though nothing were wrong, act like the insanity that slowly crept up upon him was thoroughly under his command. He would struggle in silence and refuse my help, until he was so close to breaking that even he could not tame the beast and he would shatter, showering the world around him with fragments of his once-iron will.

And I would let him. I refused to be alike to the creature that bit him, forcing my will upon him whilst leaving him with no choice and no method of escape. I could not offer him any means of escape short of handing him my service revolver, yet I was determined to give him a choice and be there when the burden grew too great and he buckled under it's weight. Even if that meant his death.

With these morbid speculations conquering me, Miss Hudson entered the room again bearing a sealed envelope addressed to me. Expecting it to be from Lestrade, I foolishly paid no attention to the style of writing upon the front, removed a small package from within and began enthusiastically reading the first few lines of the letter. My expression must have fallen quite suddenly, for Miss Hudson took notice and asked whether she should fetch Holmes from his room. How I wished it were that simple.

If the first thing I took note of was the dire contents of the letter handed to me, the second was the odd colour and consistency of the ink it was written in, for I had never seen a shade of red so peculiar and thick. The package which accompanied my terrible letter filled me with a sickly combination of dread and apprehension, yet I found myself consciously applying Holmes methods, or should I say experiments, to the letter itself.

The very first time I had met my eccentric flatmate, he had shown me one of his most important chemical experiments concerning the identification of blood. Over the years, I had seen him use his own formulae upon many crime scenes, and as such he always kept a small vial handy. I could not stop myself as I mechanically pulled the stopper from the vial and flicked a few drops upon the page. The change was instantaneous. This letter was written in blood.

By now, my hands were shaking so much that I very nearly spilt the formulae upon my breakfast and the table. The fiend! Forcing myself to remain as calm as I possibly could, I began to read the rest of the letter, my fingers digging into the paper to keep them still.

_Dear Doctor John Watson_

_I trust you had a peaceful night, despite the absence of Mister Holmes? It occurred to me that it would be a very good idea to write to you and inform you of the situation, lest you act irrationally in response to recent events._

_As I write these words, our good friend is watching me neutrally, despite some 'minor' discomforts. I will leave you to imagine what it is I could possibly mean; surprises are quite exciting aren't they? He is truly an interesting fellow, very quiet, keeps to himself regardless of any attempts I make at conversation. Perhaps I have not demanded his cooperation hard enough? I must remind myself to explore that direction of thought later tonight._

_He has only been in my company for an hour or two at most and regained consciousness some thirty minutes ago, yet he appears to have settled into his new room quite well. He has yet to comment upon his new environment, however, I am quite certain that he will be more talkative by sunrise._

_I will be keeping you updated Doctor, fear not. It must be quite troubling to be left in the dark, so consider my words to you a favour if you will. It is upon this topic which I must lay down some conditions, I hope you commit each to memory, for they are few in number and quite simple._

_Any attempts made to pursue myself or any accompanying parties will result in a misfortune befalling my new guest. After all, I cannot guarantee the condition of said guest if my attentions are focused elsewhere, can I now? On to my second recommendation. You will not, under any circumstances, attempt to attain the help of any other party for the same reasons, nor will you act as though there is anything out of the ordinary. _

_I am certain I do not have to elaborate upon the consequences of you breaking any of my requests, but just to be sure, I have taken the liberty of using quite a special ink to write this letter, and have even supplied you with a present of sorts. Good day and an even better night,_

_A Friend _

If I had been shaking before, I was positively on the verge of emotional collapse upon reading the final line. Complying with the creatures outrageous demands was quite out of the question, yet if I did, I would be willingly putting Holmes' safety at a compromise! How could I possibly act knowing he was at the mercy of a madman?

I shuddered violently, and before I even knew what I was doing I had torn the letter up into ragged bits and had begun to deposit them one by one into one of Holmes' vials of acid. I was sweating with panic, yet I felt frozen from head to toe, numb from shock and sheer helplessness. I reluctantly eyed the small package that had accompanied my morbid letter, debating whether to open it now or later. Gritting my teeth, I tore the end off roughly and tipped its contents onto the table.

I felt the dregs of my rational mind flee as I stared with my mouth agape in horror, bile rising in my throat and heart pounding violently. Upon the table, next to my breakfast plate as though it were a part of the décor, lay a single slender finger.

[-]

Cliffhanger... Dun dun dun...


	8. Chapter 7: Illusions of Deadlock

And now, here is Holmes' point of view. Poor guy, I really am being evil to him, aren't I? Oh well. I have decided to play out my ideas to the bitter end, and Watson already kicked my butt by breaking my laptop (now sent off for repair). Pancakes anyone?

Uncanny-Dreamer: VeryVan Watson indeed! I feel so cruel XD

nans: Ah indeed he has already broken a condition of the letter! Lets see what happens ^-^

Youkodoll: There wont be any slash within the main story, although I will be adding a bonus/optional slash chapter at the end no worries XD The situation I have written is too dark for slash right now =]

Ok folks, here is chapter 7:

Illusions of Deadlock

[-]

Holmes' Point of View

I awoke to the sound of silence and a lingering smell of damp. My head ached persistently, yet when I attempted to physically shake away my sluggishness I found myself firmly held in place by restraints of some sort. I struggled for a moment as if by instinct before my logical mind stilled my movements and for the first time, I opened my eyes to my surroundings, flinching as even the dimness of my location proved to be too bright.

I was being held up by a strange contraption which rattled and groaned at the slightest of my movements, yet I could not focus fully upon why I was in such a position to begin with. Although the ache in my head had begun to settle, once it had, I grew steadily aware of the growing pain in my chest, yet why such a location would ache as it did was as much a mystery to me as my current location.

I found my head to be firmly secured in place by restrains of the same kind, yet couldn't help but test them to try and gain more of an insight into my immediate surroundings. The room was extremely dim and there appeared to be a large hole in the roof. Moonlight streamed in and illuminated my location slightly, and it was by this light that I could make out a table which lay on the opposite side of the room, and the terrifying objects which adorned its surface.

Still feeling weak from my loss of consciousness and dizzy from being held against my will in such a position for so long, I bit my tongue rather forcefully to brace myself against the implications of me being here in a room with such barbaric apparatus. I felt nauseated at the sight of those horrific tools, and so averted my eyes to spare my stomach. Such a task was remarkably difficult, as the fixed position of my head kept my face fully aligned with the table's general direction and its contents.

Now that I had regained more of my senses, I took note that I was undressed from the waist up; yet another feature of these strange circumstances that remained without an obvious answer. The room was brick, perhaps an outhouse of sorts, and there was a distinct chill in the air which left me shivering.

Apparently, this room had not been occupied for some time, as a thick layer of dust lay upon the floor, disturbed only by the footprints of a single person. With nothing else to anchor my sanity, I took note that both the approximate size and breadth of the footwear worn indicated that of a male individual. With that information revealed, a gigantic piece of the puzzle was handed to me as I remembered a man in black and and abnormally powerful hand upon my throat.

_Watson. _I pulled against my restraints almost violently, the sudden thought of my Boswell spurring me into such an aggressive action. What would he make of this, how would he react? The answer was ridiculously obvious; he would be planning my rescue, perhaps even already looking for me, and in doing so he would be putting his life at risk, for our enemy was a terrible one!

Although from my level of hunger I could have only been unconscious for an hour or two, it shocked me to know I awoke with no clue as to who I was and the events which led to me being here. A distinct lack of oxygen for a small while would have provided such side-effects, yet simply knowing that the reason for my sluggishness and temporary lapse of memory coincided with the reason for my loss of consciousness comforted me greatly, even in a place such as this.

With my vision somewhat impaired by the unknown contraption that was holding my head in place, I found myself searching for methods to learn more about my location. I could not clearly see any other wall than the one before my eyes, so I could not effectively judge the size and depth of the room. Instead, I coughed loudly, and estimated the room to be quite large by the echo produced.

''It is good that you have awoken without any complications, Mister Holmes.''

I would have started quite suddenly if I had had the room and freedom to do so, and I found myself wondering at how long the despicable gentleman had been in my presence without me realising it. Perhaps he had been standing behind me the entire time. When I spoke, my voice betrayed nothing of my inner turmoil, yet as the words left me my thoughts returned to my Watson, his current whereabouts and his condition.

''And it is equally good that you have taken the time to provide me with such a comfortable accommodation. What pray tell, do I owe you on the account of your hospitality?''

''Nothing as of yet Mister Holmes, although I do think I owe you an introduction of sorts. I, am Jack Caswell.''

The name he supplied me with echoed emptily around the room. I did not recognise the name, yet somehow, I had a strange foreboding feeling that I should.

''The name does nothing for me.''

''Ah but that is a shame, for soon it will be known nationwide!''

I gritted my teeth, irritated by Caswell's arrogance. He remained behind me, well out of my sight. I was somewhat glad, for if looks could destroy, then Watson and myself would hardly be in this position. The room grew colder by the minute, yet I prepared myself for much worse, for this wasn't the first time I had ever found myself in such a dire situation.

''I fear I am still terribly uninformed. If it is your name that you wish to make, why is my presence required? Surely your goals could be accomplished without my aid, vampire?''

''Oh it is indeed true that you are 'terribly uninformed', yet before I lay the roots of our lore before you I must first send your biographer a message of sorts.''

For a second, my mind ran blank, fuelled by shock. I responded, my voice dangerously low.

''Why 'must' you? This has nothing to do with the Doctor, why involve him in this matter?''

I heard Caswell chuckle, the sound bringing gooseflesh more than the cold of my location.

''I do not wish for the Doctor to be involved, I am merely sending him a warning of sorts. Wouldn't you like him to be protected? It is a simple request after all!''

My eyes narrowed, and I found my gaze returning to the table in front of me.

''Request?''

''Yes, a request, nothing more, nothing less.''

I heard the sound of metal on metal, and before I could remark upon the noise I felt something sharp upon my back; most probably a knife.

''I will write a letter, warning Doctor Watson against searching for you. I am afraid that if he goes against my advice, your own safety will be compromised. Your life is in his capable hands so to speak.''

I opened my mouth to object, but then a stinging pain silenced me as I felt the blade slice deeply into my shoulder. I stared at the floor, hands clenched into fists and jaw set to endure. I did not protest. The blade was removed, only to be replaced with something cooler and smoother, and suddenly I realised that the fiend had put a glass bottle to my back and was collecting my blood.

''Your silence speaks volumes, but I can guarantee your defiance will not remain, Sherlock Holmes.''

''Taunt me as you will vampire, there is nothing you could possibly do to dissuade the Doctor from looking for me, believe me I have tried myself. Your efforts are in vain, your plans will backfire and once the night is over, you will leave this cell to seek the comfort of the darkness.''

Another chuckle, and then to my surprise Caswell stepped forwards to stand directly behind me.

''There is much you do not know about our kind Mister Holmes. Your lessons will be slow, painful, but your teacher...''

He trailed off to lick the blood from the wound he created, and I tensed in disgust at the sensation.

''Your teacher is very patient, and will not rest until said lessons are learnt. I do hope you are a slow learner, Mister Holmes, but if Doctor Watson's written accounts of your adventures are anything to go by, I am afraid I may be disappointed.''

I closed my eyes. ''You are a sick creature, Jack Caswell.''

''I have been told as much on more than one occasion.''

I felt my anger build, yet it only served to reinforce my calm exterior. I hoped from the bottom of my still heart that I was wrong about the Doctor searching for me; I would sooner die then allow him to fall into the hands of this fiend named Jack Caswell.

''And if Watson does choose to go against your 'advice', what will become of him?''

''My brother, Benjamin Caswell, will hunt him until he is either caught and killed, or takes his own life in despair.''

My eyes shot open, and I could not help but attempt to turn my head to face my tormentor. I felt my rage burn away any sense of restraint I held, hate and an intensity of malice I was never aware I possessed ripping away my reason as forcefully as the words I spoke.

''Benjamin Caswell? There are two of you vile fiends roaming London? I swear under honest oath; if John Watson comes to harm I will have both of your heads!''

''Ah but you are forgetting your current circumstances! Even if you were to find a method of escape, a half-vampire such as yourself would be no match against a full one, let alone two. The Doctor will receive this letter without any idea as to what is in store for him if he defies me, and will only be told of what will happen to you. Of course, your stay here will not be a pleasant one if you do not comply with my demands.''

''Which you are well aware that I will not!''

''I was counting on your decline.''

I struggled against my restrains forcefully, oblivious to the pain of straps cutting into flesh and muscles aching in protest. Jack circled me, and for the first time I looked upon his face. To my horror, I realised this was not the same man that abducted me from my rooms. The resemblance was uncanny, same facial features, same height, same voice! The only difference I could spot was his eyes; his brother, the one who had attacked and bitten me had a yellow variation. This brother, Jack Caswell had bright crimson, and as he grinned at me revealed two canines as opposed to Benjamin's one, I felt fear assault my senses. Jack and Benjamin were twins. Twin vampires, and Watson didn't have the first clue, couldn't possibly know!

''What are you, what can you possibly be, fiend?''

''A single side of the coin which will decide the fate of the world.''

I watched in horror as he walked to the table in front of me, and picked up what appeared to be a large pair of hedge pruners. He then spun on the spot, eyes wide with hunger, the equipment glistening in the moonlight, and walked towards me, grinning that terrible smile all the while.

''Heads or tails, Mister Holmes?''

He took my left hand in his, and I was powerless to stop him from doing so. Another demons smile, and he placed my index finger in between the blades as I watched in horror, too shocked to form words.

''I hear that Doctor Watson is a gambling man, what do you think, detective? Which will he choose?''

I stared him in the eye silently, refusing to speak. Or perhaps fear had frozen my vocal chords.

''Very well.''

He slowly increased the pressure of the blades upon my finger until they broke skin, tissue and then finally crushed bone, my breath caught in my throat until finally I could take the pain no more, could no longer gather the will to remain silent, and a scream laced with agony ripped itself from my throat, whilst all the while Jack Caswell smiled thoughtfully.


	9. Chapter 8: Risking the First Steps

And now back to the good Doctor. Let us see what he makes of Caswell's present, eh? So many people are watching/favoriting this story, I'm very flattered! Also: reviews are welcome, so if you have a spare minute or two leave me one please =]

Risking the first step

[-]

Dr Watson's Point of View

My stomach jolted quite suddenly at the sight of what was undoubtedly Holmes' severed finger, and I found myself gripping the backrest of the chair in front of me so tightly my own ached terribly and the knuckles changed from their usual skin tone to a much, much paler shade.

After only one night, Holmes' abductor had spelt his ruthlessness out to me letter by bloodstained letter, and had even made a joke of doing do. I could not bear knowing that whilst I stood here staring at macabre object on our table, Holmes was elsewhere and suffering terribly.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I reached over and reluctantly picked it up, my hand shaking uncontrollably. With no other anchor for comfort, I fancied I could hear the sarcastic tone of Holmes' voice telling me to examine this new piece of evidence and deduce the facts.

_Come now Watson, don't dawdle. The fate of our client may very well rest upon what you deduce, so do hurry up and do so!_

I shuddered at how accurate the words of the metaphorical Holmes were. The flesh of the extremity was extremely cold, although I could not tell if this was natural considering Holmes' affliction or due to the amount of time it had been separated from Homes' hand.

The cut that severed the finger had been double-bladed, meaning that the finger had been cut from both top and bottom simultaneously. There were few tools available that could produce such a cut, and fewer still which had the capacity to overpower bone in such a way at such speed, and disbelief shook my senses as I realised that the most likely culprit was a pair of sheers or hedge-clippers. Such a barbaric, crude method...

_Humanity is prone to barbarism Watson, have you not seen as much from our encounters with the criminal world?_

I shook myself and took a closer look at the finger as a whole. From the slight curve and length, I deduced that this finger had been taken from Holmes' left hand...

_The hand he used to play his violin._

If at any point during my so called 'career' with Sherlock Holmes I felt outrage, now would be that point. Not only had the fiend forced his affliction upon Holmes, kidnapped him, sent me a horrific letter and finally removed his finger, he had effectively crippled him from using the one material possession he held dear. Holmes would never be able to play as he once did, and I would never be woken by his music during the early hours of the morning, never sit and watch him express his emotions through sound and subtle movement.

Something inside me finally snapped, and at that moment Inspector Lestrade entered the room closely followed by Miss Hudson. I pocketed the finger hastily and forced a strained smile as the Inspector approached me, beaming. He eyed my crossbow with a raised eyebrow, but did not comment upon it, for I was sure he had seen much stranger things adorn our dining table at one point or another.

''Good morning Doctor! I hear Holmes has finally recovered?''

Miss Hudson cast me a disproving look at my untouched breakfast, then promptly left the room. Although I had requested Lestrade's presence, he really could not have come at a worse time. I forced my voice to be bright, yet I felt burnt by my own words.

''Indeed he has Inspector, indeed he has!''

Lestrade's smile widened; at least somebody here was able to do so honestly.

''Well that is good news in the very least! I received your message Doctor and have come as you requested. How can I be of assistance?''

I poured Lestrade and myself a cup of tea, and motioned for him to sit in my usual armchair. After checking to make sure my gruesome 'present' was still safely in my pocket, I joined him by the unlit fire, taking Holmes' usual seat. The smile I was forcing felt heavier by the second, yet the digit in my pocket felt even heavier.

''Holmes was wondering upon the facts of the TRT case, or to be more specific the aftermath in the warehouse. As Holmes is still recovering and yet to leave his bed, he has asked me to gather as much information as possible. You are probably aware that I am no good at distinguishing between facts of importance and facts that aren't of any use whatsoever, so could you please tell me everything you know of the case from that point onwards?''

Lying came to me disgustingly easy, yet Lestrade didn't seem to recognise what I said to be as much. Taking a sip of his tea, he began his tale of the aftermath, not questioning my own lack of knowledge on the subject. In my caring for Holmes, I had neglected the morning papers and was utterly clueless to even the information that was released publicly.

''There isn't much to tell Doctor Watson, on the basis that we performed a full investigation and in return received no leads of any kind. Mister Holmes' presence was sorely missed, I can tell you that for sure. The bodies were sent to be identified, we examined the scene and found nothing. We haven't even located or identified the man who attacked Mister Holmes.''

I steepled my fingers subconsciously, unaware at the time that I were mimicking Holmes' usual habits.

''And the woman who was found? What can you tell me of her?''

''Only her name. She was officially identified as a Miss Jane Whitely, twenty years of age and wore an engagement ring.''

Miss Jane Whitely. The name did not ring any bells of recognition, yet I was determined to learn more about the unfortunate woman. Again, Holmes' voice whispered inside my head.

_Miss Jane Whitely, young, female and due to be married. Engagement ring remained on the finger even after death; we can rule out robbery from our list of motives. Gather me more clay Watson, a single brick is far from an entire house._

''And her family?''

''Refusing to speak upon the matter. It is a strange case indeed Doctor. When we arrived at their family home, they were reluctant to speak with us and instead sent us away, although the family had dressed in the typical mourning blacks.''

''Strange indeed. What can you tell me about their reactions to your visit?''

''They were very suspicious of us, almost fearful of our presence. At the sight of our carriage, the mother of the victim sent the children away to their rooms. It is a very odd, secretive business, and none of us at the Yard can make neither heads nor tails of it.''

_Well that it hardly a new development._

Even the metaphorical Holmes inside my mind liked to poke fun at the efforts of Scotland Yard, and for a second my forced smile morphed into a genuine one.

''Perhaps I shall pay the family a visit.''

''I should warn you against doing that Doctor. They are a secretive bunch, very quiet, very mindful towards visitors. I doubt you would be welcomed with open arms.''

_Perhaps you would have gained better results if one man had paid the family a visit, rather then the entirety of Scotland Yard._

I scolded 'Holmes' for his biting remarks, even if the Inspector could not hear them. Perhaps I was going a little mad for doing so, or for even having a metaphorical Holmes in the first place.

''But even so, surely it would be much better to let me try than the case come to a standstill?''

Lestrade sipped his tea thoughtfully. If I could gain his permission to visit the family home, there was a chance that I could learn more from them about this vampire which attacked Holmes. I had learnt earlier just how ruthless the creatures could be, yet this vampire had literally torn poor Miss Jane to pieces. There had to have been some connection between them, and I found myself wondering at what the poor woman had done to evoke the wrath of such a heartless creature.

''You do have a point Doctor, and I will grant you my blessing with furthering this investigation. I do wish for you to forwards any and all information you do manage to get personally to me though, I have already made somewhat of a fool of myself with the pace of this case. The family live in a privately owned house named Oakhall.''

_Ah Lestrade..._

_Quiet Holmes._

I nodded in relief for I recognised the name; Oakhall resided within a quiet town some miles north-east of Hertford. I knew the town well and had been there on several occasions; a former patient of mine had lived in that general area, and had been unable to move from their bed and so I had settled on making private calls to their residence. With this knowledge in mind, my spirits lifted slightly, although I felt a creeping feeling of dread as I realised that from here on out, I would be quite alone in my investigations; my next move (and Holmes' well-being) relied totally on any information I could receive at Oakhall. The rest of our conversation drifted off into more friendly waters as time passed, and once our tea had been consumed, Lestrade stood to leave and I followed him to the door. Not once during the entire encounter had he asked of Holmes' whereabouts, and I found myself appreciating his unusual lack of curiosity.

''Keep me updated on your findings Doctor. This is an odd case, one I am sure Mister Holmes will appreciate.''

I smiled somewhat darkly. ''Oh I have no doubt you are right Lestrade. If anything happens, you will be the first to know.''

Luckily, there was a carriage just outside of our rooms, and as Lestrade climbed aboard I heard him tell the driver to take him to Scotland Yard. With one last farewell in the form of a hasty wave, I retreated back upstairs with the intentions of packing whatever I could for the upcoming journey ahead.

[-]

It was some hours later that I stood back to look over what I had managed to accomplish. I had but a single case holding my clothing for the upcoming trip and my recently restocked medicine bag, yet I could not fathom a reasonable way to transport my crossbow, that is, until a sudden brainwave gave me an idea.

When folded, the crossbow itself was 12 inches long, yet it's full size was literally double that length. I retrieved an old leather belt, added an extra hole, and attached it to the top of my leg. I found that the weapon would be completely concealed as long as I wore a long overcoat, yet the thought of carrying it around with me in such a deceptive fashion made me feel somewhat ill. Lord help me, give me strength, I am a healing man, not a fighter, not a man of iron will, and certainly not a vampire hunter...

I had no doubt in mind that if I was discovered carrying such a brutal weapon, not even Lestrade would have the powers to help me go unhindered by the local police. It was this thought that brought on another; what should I do about my grizzly 'present'? I could hardly keep it in my pocket, that would bring even more questions than my crossbow!

Walking towards the fireplace, I hesitantly removed it from my pocket, unwilling to lay eyes upon it. With a final shudder, I locked it away within one of Holmes' tinted jars and hid it in the bottom of his chemical drawers. I only hoped Miss Hudson would not come across it.

I glanced at my pocket watch; it was time. Gathering up the small quantity of items I were to take with me, I gave the room one last look before setting out, for it was becoming increasingly more likely that I would never see them again, especially now that my movements were being watched.

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Authors Notes: Please leave a review telling me what you think of the story so far, they help give me motivation =]


	10. Chapter 8B: Far More Dangerous

And now for something a little different... Here are the events leading from the death of the woman in the warehouse, up until last chapters events of Watson packing, all from Benjamin Caswell's point of view (the one who bit Holmes). Let us see what he has to say!

**Uncanny-dreamer:** Ah I struggle writing Watson because I'm more of a Holmes person myself. Its nice to know I'm managing to keep in character with the Doctor, he really is difficult to write at times .

**Sno-Oki:** Oh yes, I love metaphorical!Holmes XD And yes... Poor Holmes T_T I have a cunning plan!

**Nans:** Here is the next chapter, I'm really glad you're enjoying this story, I'm not very confident with my writing ya see so your feedback is really appreciated =]

sodapop0006: If you love the darker side of fanfiction, you will love the upcoming chapters. Sometimes I feel a little sadistic for writing this stuff, then I think... ''Nah'' XD

**Vidar:** Ah... I have much more planned for Holmes, so I don't think Watson will be finding him _too_ soon : ]

Objects in the Rear View Mirror Are Far More Dangerous Than They First Appear

[-]

Benjamin Caswell's Point of View

Jack was pleased with my delivering of the detective; had I known the man I had bitten was none other than Sherlock Holmes, I would have brought him home much, much, much sooner. It was a beautiful night that night, as only that particular night could be. My first post-transformation meal took place that night, oh the chosen night.

I ran free. With the moon glowing against a truly sanguine sunset, I ran free, free for the first time since forever, truly, honestly, undeniably _free._ I positively _revelled_ in the blood-lust it brought, the never ending urge to force the blood tides to rise, fill the the rivers to bursting with the life essence of the human race, spill red across the cobblestones of London!

It was beautiful. It would be beautiful. She was beautiful, My fiancé. My angel. Only she wasn't an angel, angels never die. She died, She screamed, _she cheated_. I laughed and ran free once more, the cry of the night calling me louder than any horn or whistle. Ran free, unrestrained. Until I noticed another ran with me; a _human_ ran with me. I was intrigued, how could I _not_ be intrigued?

The man that followed me, followed me as a wolf would track his daily meal. I could smell the thrill of the hunt on him, even after he had undoubtedly seen what I did to my precious bitch-angel. I could smell her too. Even the scent of her life-blood disgusted me, repulsed me, yet the smell of his blood... I needed his, fresh, warm and unusually clean. As he followed, I felt the itch of hunger, the unshakable thirst gnaw at both mind and body, the irresistible pounding of his pulse; I cornered myself and waited for his arrival, leaving a trail of mist behind me.

I watched him turn the corner, a look of utter confusion upon his face. I struck without warning, yet the creature, the thing who was human yet acted wolf still managed to dislodge one of my teeth with a well aimed hit. I remember cursing; our teeth are the hardest to regenerate. Jack would not be pleased.

Even as I bit him he struggled relentlessly; I knew Jack would find him interesting, as I had thought him interesting. We shared the same face, were born from the same womb and now we shared the same lust for blood and hunt. We were closer than any pair of brothers, for even in un-death we acted as one in the interests of the other, for the safety of the other. He was me; I was him. We could communicate telepathically; an unheard of skill even amongst our kind. Our kind did not get along well, not like Jack and myself. We are a revolution, an unliving, unbreathing, uncaring tornado of power, for we shared all our talents with the other, making us both at least twice as powerful as any freshly-turned creature of the night. I basked in the glory of such knowledge as I drained the wolf-human in my grasp. It was Jack who turned me.

I tasted blood, blood far superior than any of the finest wines man had ever cared to create, and a thousand times more intoxicating, a thousand times more addictive, a thousand times more irresistible. Mortals consider our greed a weakness, yet I cannot describe the sensation of liquid-red upon the tongue; I drank deep, feeling somewhat refreshed, the moonlight reflecting against stray drops of coloured-crimson.

The man ceased to struggle, yet with a single tooth I could not drink much, for I heard the voices of man, more than one, less than ten, yet it was the sound of whistles that finally forced me to break away from my hunter-turned-pray. Ten men I could kill, devour, utterly crush; yet their profession stopped me from doing so. Jack told me to lay low, so lay low I would. And I did. We could not be revealed until the opportune moment, that single _chosen_ second, picked by Jack and myself. It would be magnificent, utterly awe inspiring. Even as I fled with these thoughts in mind, I felt the thrill of the hunt bellow once more. I killed three more that night.

I hunted until on that same night I was told to watch, watch, watch through the window of my victim, and it was then I realised that my victim was the famous detective known as Sherlock Holmes. I alerted Jack, he responded positively; my heart would have swelled with pride if it were beating. He told me to keep watching, waiting, to feed at night so that I might watch during the day, and for almost four months I repeated this routine. Drink, watch through the window, drink, watch, drink, watch.

My attentions were drawn to the man I knew to be Doctor John Watson. I immediately disliked him; him fluttering about my pray, _jacks pray_ as though Holmes was his! I knew this to be a foolish though, very very foolish, for I had turned Holmes myself! Perhaps I would turn Watson too. Perhaps Jack would have no need for the Doctor, perhaps I could bottle his blood and offer it to Holmes? He would be a powerful ally; Jack knew so, Jack told me, so it must be true. At this stage in the plan, allies would be most useful, yet they must be hand picked. Jack approved of my 'picking'.

I feasted upon the red of London, growing stronger, stronger, Jack growing stronger, stronger. Finally, Holmes woke up. I hated the glare of the sun against my very being late that afternoon, yet I knew in the end, for this, it would all be worth it. I could _smell_ the vampire in him, even as he sat in bed unaware of his condition.

I watched for hours more, until Holmes realised what he was and I felt my still-heart fill with devilish glee. He rose, I could _feel_ the change upon him, yet I knew that until he had taken the blood of the living he would remain as he was; poor, poor tormented soul. I almost clapped as I watched him approach the Doctor, bit my lip so hard my own blood dripped down my chin in a steady stream as the Doctor felt fear, _fear_ towards the man he had guarded for weeks on end! I adored the irony behind it all! The Doctor ran, ran with fear, not with pleasure as we did in the light of the moon! My orders from Jack were clear; Holmes was my target, even if I did very so much want to chase Watson away until his heart exploded within his chest!

The illusion I created was one of my greatest works; humans are harder to manipulate than objects. As the Doctor ran for help, I, freshly fed and strong from the great hunt that was the city of London, used up most of my energy creating a shadow of a memory for the Doctor and planting it carefully in his head so that he might chase down the help of a specific 'person'. That was where brother Jack stepped in. Being much more adept at manipulating the cattle of the world, Jack created an entire human illusion to distract the Doctor! Jack's powers are truly awe inspiring, for he did all this from miles and miles away! It was a success, as I knew it only could be with Jack's help.

I observed Holmes pace, up, down, up, down, until he picked up... a violin? Jack would love to hear him play, yet I knew Holmes would not bend to Jacks will as jack would want him to. Not yet. Perhaps even not ever. That would be a bad scenario, for Jack wanted Holmes' cooperation very much. I grinned in anticipation; I loved to watch Jack 'persuade' people, he was perfect, never a wasted movement. A knife-wielding artist; a sculptor with the thirst, the _thirst_.

I yanked Holmes from his room neck first despite my exhaustion and exchanged biting words with the Doctor; could feel my smile transform into a demons-grin as I sliced Holmes' flesh with my fingertips. Jack said I could. I did. Watson shot me, that's why. His human-made, human-forged bullets stung wonderfully. I ran under the watch of the moon with Holmes over my shoulder, laughing to myself breathlessly all the way home, the sight of my own blood driving me mad with that _need_ again. I had stolen Holmes away from Watson; taken him away whilst the Doctor looked on in horror. What helpless creatures humans are! Finders keepers, that it how it is now, how it will be in the future.

Hours and hours later, brother Jack sent me on an crucial errand, and important job for me and me alone. A letter, a letter for the Doctor! Jack told me what was inside and we both shared a chuckle. I hoped the Doctor would find it just as amusing, yet somehow I didn't expect him to. Mortals never really shared our sense of humour.

I did not even bother to disguise myself; I simply knocked upon Watson's door and handed the letter over to the old woman. The sunlight made me feel too hot, too cold, itchy, itchy, itchy! I watched the building once again; Jack told me to kill Watson if he attempted to get help. I watched a man come and go; he stank of Scotland yard and _humanness_. People like that man would make weak allies. Not even his blood interested me much.

The man left, far too quickly for Watson to ask him for help. Besides, as the man came out, he looked too cheery. Bloodshed and gore-lust do NOT make humans cheery. They cry, get angry, kill people for revenge yet don't drink the blood of their kill! It _disgusts_ me. Watson could not have asked this disgusting man for help, so for now, Watson would live. Jacks orders. Maybe he did need the Doctor after all.

I watched until nightfall, and that is when I saw it. A disgusting, horrific creation of man; the Doctor held a crossbow, a killer of our kind! I could not suppress a hiss of anger! How _dare_ he take up arms against us! How _dare_ he! Maybe he was just out to protect himself from the big, bad, bad, _bad_ monsters of the night? He had not attempted to call for assistance regarding Holmes capture, yet that creation of humanity... Maybe I should play with the Doctor a little more...

The night is young, dark, seductive and beautiful, and as I watched through Watson's window, I bared my fangs in delight as I witnessed him pack. The hunt was on. The never ending hunt. He would run, I would chase. The demon within me cackled; I decided. The Doctor would die, be it tonight or a year from now, and I would carve his flesh until his body was unrecognisable and his life-blood dripped deliciously from my hands. Drip, Doctor Watson. Drip, drip, _drip_.

[-]

Authors Notes: I actually completed this on the 27th of June, but since I had already updated that day, I chose to wait until today to submit this new chapter. Reviews are always welcome, please drop me a message ^_^


	11. Chapter 9: A Sick Sense of Humour

So... many... reviews... thanks guys, I really appreciate the feedback =D The story from Watson's perspective continues... Dun dun dun... : ]

**Sno-Oki:** A rapid twist to the left indeed D: Not even I saw it coming .

**Uncanny-dreamer:** I've seen Holmes be likened to a bloodhound when tracking people, the metaphor seemed to fix perfectly here! Naw you ain't obsessing, I thought it was a cool idea too =D Caswell is growing on me .

**Nans:** Oh something tells me Benjamin won't be following your advice O_O Lets see : ]

**Annadog40**: I'm really glad you think so!

A Sick Sense of Humour

[-]

Watson's Point of View

The snow from the evening before had been reduced to a filthy combination of slush and street-grit from a night of near constant rainfall, and as I hailed a cab I was forced to take a step back as it's wheels threw up the dirt and ice high onto the cobbles. Using Holmes' pay from his last case, I had sent Miss Hudson away to stay with her relatives until it was 'safe' to return. She of course protested, but somehow I managed to convince her it would be for the best without telling her why. The metaphorical Holmes rolled his eyes at what he would have undoubtedly called my melodrama.

I could not afford to be slow and I knew the journey would be anything but hasty, so I paid the driver to take me to the nearest train station. From there, I would take a train to Hertford, then hail another cab to take me to Stockwall where I knew the Whitely Family home to be.

I opened the door to the cab and was about to climb aboard when for some reason or another I hesitated, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I glanced over my shoulder, back to the door of 221, yet something compelled me to glance at our sitting room window. Staring out of our curtains and down at me with slitted eyes was the man who had snatched Holmes. My hand hovered near my leg, itching to draw my concealed crossbow, and I almost scrapped my plans then and there in favour of pursing the creature. So, the man himself was the one watching my movements? At least as long as he was here, he wasn't with Holmes, couldn't harm Holmes. In the end, it was Holmes' safety that was more important than my own, and it was for that reason that I called out to the watcher-fiend.

''You can only watch me for so long, night-dog!''

With that said, I slammed the cab door and tapped on the roof to signal to the much confused driver that it was time to depart. I honestly could not believe that the vampire was carrying out his own vigil; if I were more informed, more prepared and knew where the creature was keeping Holmes, I could have attempted to end this entire chain of events within our own rooms!

My anger slowly began to level out some as we drew away from Baker Street, and I found myself listening to the sounds of the horse's hooves upon the cobbles, feeling the heat of the midday sun against the side of my face as I reviewed my plan for what had to be the fifth or sixth time. Now that I had begun my journey, my thoughts inevitably returned to Holmes and the trials we would face when I had brought him back to 221B.

Not only would he have to recover from the trauma of being imprisoned, he would be assaulted with a plethora of new problems as soon as he had returned. I hadn't the first clue as to how I should go about helping him around this new affliction of his, yet I knew simply sitting back and watching him struggle was completely out of the question.

I have to admit, it felt odd to be travelling alone in this manner with only my imagination to reassure me. I was much accustomed to having Holmes at my side; him being the one to announce our plan of action, and him being one step ahead and completely in control of the situation, whatever that situation may be. Now it was I that walked in his footsteps; always three steps ahead and explicitly aware of the task I had set out to accomplish. Now it was he that relied upon me, and I knew that a single slip upon my part would result in a world of pain for him. The vampire had already taken a finger, and I could not bring myself to think about the next part that would be removed if I was discovered breaking any of that tyrants rules.

_Do not dwell upon such matters Watson. As the old saying goes: que sera sera, what will be will be. Once these times have passed us, we will be left to examine whatever remains._

So far, I had done well. I had never intended to enlighten Lestrade upon recent events, and the creatures 'rules' had not yet hindered me in any way. I knew visiting Oakhall was a tremendous risk; the vampire was most likely watching my every move, and yet I could not pass up this chance, possibly my only lead in the steps I must take to recover Holmes. I only prayed my actions would not bring too dire-a-consiquence.

It had begun to rain, and I instantly felt sympathetic towards the driver of my cab. No doubt the fellow would catch influenza, especially with the chill and bite of the winds.

_Oh you do worry more than your fair share dear boy._

Ever since laying eyes upon that fiend, I knew my task would be perilous. My chances of success were extremely low; I felt Miss Sylvia had only enlightened me on the minimal basics of vampirism. I had no idea as to where the lady went, for I have not seen her since I unlocked Holmes door to find him in that creatures grasp. I do hope she got home safely.

I heard a knock upon the roof of my carriage; we had arrived at our destination. I wasted no time in thanking the driver, then ran to board my train. Much to my fortune, my train was just about to depart from it's platform. It was also very fortunate that because of the hour, I had a compartment completely to myself. Somehow, I did not think I would be able to stand the company of strangers tonight.

I paid for my ticket and glanced through the compartment window at the masses of people outside, and there, grinning up at me from the platform was the creature. Men, women, children and families passed him by without a second glance; could they not see the unnatural yellow of his eyes, feel the suffocating killer intent that poured out of him? Were they blind to what he was?

_Prepare yourself Watson, do not let your guard down! There is something amiss here tonight!_

My metaphorical Holmes could not have put it any better, even if he was a figment of my imagination; a side effect of stress, worry and other factors I would rather not elaborate upon. As I looked upon this smiling creature, I began to see just how hopeless-a-task I had set out to achieve. How could I ever hope to gain the upper hand against an opponent who controls how others see him?

I found I could not turn my gaze elsewhere; I could see the yellow of his eyes even from this distance. Apparently, I was the only one that could. Metaphorical Holmes attempted to comfort me again, yet his 'words' held litter gravity for I knew it was my own mind that developed his speculations.

_You are obviously the only person here that has been allowed to witness what that man really is Watson. What do you think is his intention?_

I swallowed, watching the fiend watch me. Time felt as though it were stood still, the air felt thick and still. I answered to myself.

_Fear._

_Correct. And if it is fear he wishes to project, what does this tell you about our enemy?_

Somehow, I had managed to puzzle myself.

_What can you possibly mean? Isn't fear an end in itself?_

_On other occasions, you would be completely correct in your presumptions._

_Then what?_

Of course, just like the real Holmes, the metaphorical one did not answer my question. With a heavy sigh, I returned my full attentions to my follower. I wish I had not. With a particularly vile leer, the creature pulled back his coat to reveal the freshly severed head of my cab driver, hair attached to the creatures belt like some obscene trophy of a hunt I instinctively knew I wanted no part in. The crowd still passed the man by without a second glance, even as he held it up to show me, blood dripping rhythmically onto the pavement of the platform.

I physically recoiled from my seat, wanting to get as far away from that fiend as possible without even taking a second to think about my actions. I got halfway across my compartment when the creature yanked the head upwards above his own, and with a splash of gore threw it directly at my compartment window.

Despite my numerous cases with Holmes, I have never known the horror of having a head thrown my way. I ducked instinctively, throwing myself to the floor even as I knew of the glass that separated me from the enemy. I closed my eyes before the head made contact with said glass, and cringed when I heard a sickening thud. I opened my eyes; the only evidence that anything had been thrown at all was the dark circle mark of fresh blood against the window, and even as I looked on, it began to slowly disappear before my eyes.

_What in the Lord's name..._

_Fear Watson, fear. People who fear make mistakes old boy. He is waiting for you to make a mistake; a single slip, one lapse of judgement. Perhaps he is looking for an excuse to introduce you to the great hunt. Perhaps it is in the vampire's nature to play with his food._

_An illusion?_

The extent of the creatures powers were making itself painfully known to me. This man, this... 'thing' had the ability to create _illusions_. Tricks of the mind, tricks of the _senses_. And as my metaphorical Holmes explained to me, the creature's goal was to force me to make a mistake. Out of _fear_.

I stood up again, unwilling to show my weakness any more than I had already done. To my rage, the unnamed fiend was laughing, head thrown back dramatically. The crowd walked on. I pounded my fist against the window, catching his attention. I forced myself to laugh back. I would rather be hell-bound than let him play with my mind; I resolved to find a way to see through his trickery. If I didn't, I would never be able to bring Holmes back.

The fact that the vampire was stood there in broad daylight brought a creeping shiver up my spine. If Miss Sylvia's wisdom was anything to go by, then the creature had obviously fed within the past twenty four hours. I could not even begin to comprehend the creatures existence; how could a human embrace such an ailment so utterly completely?

Somewhere the sound of whistle pierced the air, signalling our departure. I knew the creature would find a way to follow me, yet he had already been presented with more than enough opportunities to attack. If he hadn't done so already, I doubted he would attack during my travel to Hertford.

[-]

Ten minutes into my journey, I decided to risk looking out of my compartment window, having avoided doing so ever since the trains departure from the platform. There was no sign of my watcher-fiend, yet still I found I could not willingly relax. There was too high-a-stake involved. My luggage rattled in the overhead compartment as if to agree with me.

_Really Watson, you should cease this romanticism._

_Oh be quite. _

My thoughts constantly drifted back to Holmes and the situation he now found himself in. There was no way to know of the pain he was in, and I was certain that with the vampire following me, he would be neglected. I did not know whether to be angered or relieved that the creature appeared to be more focused on me.

[-]

A further twenty minutes passed with fifteen minutes remaining until the train was due to reach Hertford, and all in all I was feeling on edge more than ever. The creature had yet to make an appearance, yet I could not shake the feeling that I was being closely observed. How much more blood would be spilled before this whole thing was over?

_Remember Watson, he is still following you._

_And how could you possibly know that?_

_I could ask you the same question old boy._

Really, I must be loosing my mind. Arguing with yourself can never taken as a good sign, vampire or not.

_Ah Watson do lighten up._

_No._

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Authors Notes: Being Ill sucks... as always, reviews are welcomes =]


	12. Chapter 10: Limits to the Semihuman Mind

I am so very, very sorry it took me all this time to get the next chapter up but I have an excuse . To cut a VERY long story short, my laptop died on me. I waited three weeks to save up enough to get it fixed, then sent it off. Four weeks later, I get a call telling me that they cant fix my problem, even though they said they could. Took me a week to get it back. Now, its going be at least another four weeks before the guy I know fixes it and sends it back. Luckily, all my files were on a flash drive, but I havn't been able to get a lot of computer access to get this typed up. Right, on with the story (thank god!).

Ahhh... I've been so incredibly mean to Watson... Time to be mean to Holmes now eh? This chapter continues from chapter 7, and leads up to the morning Watson received the letter from Caswell, all from Holmes' POV. Next chapter will continue from Holmes' POV, and end where we last left Watson.

To all reviewers: Thank you very much for your kind words throughout Que Sera Sera so far. You have all been wonderful, and I can only hope you will choose to forgive me for my ridiculously long absence. Here is the next chapter. It is a short one... a very short one.

Limits to the Semi-Human Mind

[-]

Holmes' Point of view

After finding it appropriate to remove my finger, Caswell had chosen to leave me very much alone and very much in pain. Even with the moon high in the nights sky, a single candle had been left lit upon the table opposite me. I was sweating profusely, and suddenly thankful for my lack of upper body attire. The shock of the injury refused to leave me; the stub of my finger felt as though it had been exposed to a naked flame. I should not have been shocked to see so little blood for such a wound; my heart no longer beat in my chest. It would be therefore wise to presume I had no natural blood-flow. How strange that I should be in this state, yet still amongst the ranks of the living. At least to some extent in the very least.

My future looked hopeless; how could I possibly live as I had done before? Would I be faced with questions whenever I was wounded? Would I ever be able to walk in the sunlight without feeling such nausea? Was this the full extent of my vampirism? If so, wouldn't it be logical to think I should be feeling... _hungry_... quite soon? I glanced at the pathetic remnants of my left finger. I very much doubted that I would ever play my violin in quite the same way again. This thought filled me with black sorrow, yet I shook it away, unwilling to think of such things whilst my mind was unable to operate properly.

Another sharp stabbing pain; I could not help but grit my teeth resolutely against the inevitable waves of nausea that followed. This was not the first time I had ever found myself in such a situation, yet I had never been injured in such a crippling way before. Usually, my captors were more violent and demanding, as opposed to the crazy-calm exterior of Jack Caswell. This type of wound would be career-damaging for many, yet somehow I thought it the least of my troubles.

As Caswell turned to leave me through an exit I could not see, he thought it fitting to tell me that I would suffer no infection from my wound. Apparently, even a half-life such as myself benefited from a few select perks that the vampire race enjoyed as part of their 'blessing'. He told me that although I was still essentially human, I would live to enjoy an extraordinarily long lifespan of eighty to ninety years and would never suffer from illness. He told me I would soon begin to notice a sharpening of my senses and a darker, nameless urge for violence against my fellow men would stalk me wherever I would seek to go.

Even as Jack Caswell alerted me to these changes, I became steadily conscious of his words as he spoke them. I felt no cocaine in my system for my four week sleep had flushed all traces of the drug from my system, yet I felt incredibly alert and hyper-aware of my surroundings as I would usually if I took to the needle. I noticed colours standing out much bolder than usual, each one screaming out at my senses as though each individual shade had a tale to tell, whether I wished to hear it or not. It shocked me to the core.

''Join me and work towards my goals'', he had said. Even as I strained to stare at my hand and ignore the vast phantasmagoria of my confused senses, I whispered through a clenched jaw, ''No.''.

That had been some hours ago. In a place such as this, there was no solid way to calculate the amount of time that had passed since then. I could feel the slow approach of the sun despite the moon still shining above; never before had I utterly _loathed _anything without a good, logical reason. Now I was reduced to... what exactly? A slave to my instincts? A _thing _driven by base urges? Even now, I could feel something, some dark presence within me, a plague demanding it's wants be given into. I dared not dwell on it for a moment longer, lest said perversions be given a name- a name I feared I would recognise.

But what of Watson? The very thought of his name made the thing within cackle and leer, with my own voice no less. Even if I did manage to escape, I would never force my presence upon him, for I knew I would begin to pose a threat to him. This threat would grow and fester; I could not allow that to happen. I decided then and there that I would flee away from everything I once knew. Perhaps I would make my silent retreat to the country and take up a profession most unlike the one I follow now. Something completely unrelated with my habits and interests, so that I couldn't be tracked. Bee keeping, perhaps. I doubted I would pose much of a threat to them.

It pained me to plan on leaving Watson behind, but once again, it was necessary to preserve his safety. Right now, he was undoubtedly in much more danger than I, for it certainly appeared as though Jack wished me to live... or un-alive, depending on how one would care to interpret my continued existence. I could not fathom why Caswell was so insistent upon my cooperation, but I certain that he would have little or no use for Watson. His safety was not as guaranteed as my own. Not whilst Benjamin was tailing him, and certainly not whilst Jack refused to elaborate on what it was that he wished me to do. I could only hope that Watson would come to his senses and flee as far and as quickly as possible. I doubted he would.

It would be surprising to many to learn that I have never really thought of Watson as being my biographer or colleague. No, even from the very moment I laid eyes upon him, I could tell that he was a man of immense worth. I wasn't mistaken. His time abroad had done nothing to harden the softness of his heart, and although he is incredibly persistent upon the condition of my health I cannot bring myself to think any less of him for his meddling. I have never stopped to seriously consider the theory of fate, and have often berated others for speaking of such utter nonsense, yet as I stood confined within Caswell's grasp I found myself re-evaluating the entire concept. Chance alone could never have brought such an honourable individual to the door of 221B.

I laughed bitterly; a single night of being imprisoned had made me reconsider the un-considerable. My body moved without my conscious will, struggling against my restraints to escape the impending sun. My very skin crawled. Soon I began shake, the contraption I was bound to rattling violently until I thought I might be literally irritated to bedlam from the noise alone. As the first beams of light struck the floor before me through the hole in my roof, despite the incredible discomfort, despite being imprisoned by a monster, despite that damned voice within my soul, my only thoughts were for Watson's safety and the future of my closest friend.


	13. Chapter 10B: Mirror Mirror

Okay, another stupidly long absence. Many apologies, let us continue on. A massive thank you to all my reviewers, this long hiatus of mine SHOULD be at an end now that this chapter has been completed.

Mirror Mirror...

As the first beams of light struck the floor before me through the hole in my roof, despite the incredible discomfort, despite being imprisoned by a monster, despite that damned voice within my soul, my only thoughts were for Watson's safety and the future of my closest friend.

I knew the moment Caswell read out that morbid letter to me his demands would be ignored. I knew the very second Watson opened and read that same letter and received Jack's so called gift that his wrath would be tempted. Most individuals would be horrified by the concept of their flatmate putting their life at risk for another, but no matter how long my thoughts lingered upon that subject, I only felt pride and fear. The beams of sunlight upon the floor crept closer, and in turn, my body attempted to free itself of its own accord. Such a dramatic reaction to sunlight would surely hinder me in the future, yet as I stood attached to that hellish contraption my mind could fathom no way of effectively avoiding such scenarios all together. My only hope was that I would develop some resistance to the inevitable glare of natural light.

_Why, you act as though you actually appreciate the daylight._

My body instantly froze for I neither spoke nor thought those words, yet they echoed within my mind all the same. I was certain that I was the only inhabitant of the room. I could have sworn I were imagining things, yet the same voice, _my voice_, spoke again.

_Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. The forever aloof figure clad in black and white. Tell me Holmes, are you a creature of vice beyond your insufferable addiction to chemicals?_

I swallowed involuntarily. I recognised that voice more than any other, yet the tone it held was a stranger to me for I had never used it myself nor desired to. I answered tonelessly to an empty, damp room. ''Reveal yourself and perhaps I will choose to answer.''

_Come now, Sherlock, we both know you would never answer me honestly. You cannot even admit such things to yourself! I cannot do as you have asked, for you in all your stubbornness and righteousness refuse to drink the life source of mortals. We are the same being._

To my shame, his words instantly caught my attention. Ever since I first laid eyes upon my sinister reflection at Baker Street, my curiosity had rebelled at the sheer absence of data available, for I knew next to nothing concerning my affliction. I did not understand how such a change could be possible, nor could I comprehend the sheer allure of the creature that had bitten me. For once in an extremely long period of time, I understood nothing of what I had become. The voice chuckled darkly, even though I did not reply.

_Your weakness is glaringly obvious, regardless of whether you choose to voice it or not. You have no clue as to what you have become, have you mortal? No clue whatsoever of your potential._

I bit back a remark, although the darker variation of my voice cackled loudly. Obviously, the thing had free reign over my thoughts. ''What are you?''

_I am you and everything you deny yourself._

To my horror, the vibrant colours of my prison dissolved into black and white and suddenly my surroundings transformed and I was back at Baker Street, still strapped to my restraints. Of course, I knew what I was seeing was merely a false image; a subconscious artistic impression manipulated by my other voice, yet I could feel the intensity of the open fire and feel my eyes burn at the sudden brightness of the lamps. Delusions created by a fevered brain, perhaps. I let myself take in the vastly detailed image before me, categorising the similarities and differences between the illusion and my real place of residence. Opposite from where I were held sat a twisted copy of myself, a man with much paler skin than my own and with bright violet eyes that instantly captured my gaze and became the focus of interest. He was indeed me, yet there were many differences between myself and the copy sat in my chair by the fire; his hair was indeed the same shade as mine but much longer and worn in a loose band of crimson ribbon. He sat with a relaxed elegance, yet how he sat could hardly be called as such for his legs hung lazily over the armrest, head thrown back carelessly. Refined but carefree, his intense gaze fixed wholly upon me with visible interest. I thought myself mad for conjuring such illusions.

''We are the same being. Imagine, Sherlock, that both the lighter and darker side of every individual in the world were separate people with a separate voice. The concept of good and evil is and always will be a highly fantastical creation by man in a pathetically weak attempt to explain our darkest wants and needs. Wouldn't you agree?''

His voice mirrored mine perfectly as though his speculations and ideals were my own. A black silk variation of my own grey dressing gown were all he chose to wear. This version of myself certainly appreciated debauchery, and every difference between him and myself only reinforced this fact, yet as I looked on I felt my eyes visibly widen at the sight of a dark-wood mahogany violin with brass fittings in his lap. I could feel feel him questioning me, yet the question asked in his gaze was not the one he asked me out aloud. I would have shook my head if it was within my ability to, but as it was not, I spoke. _'_'I am afraid I still do not understand the full extent of my affliction enough to make a cohesive argument. Where am I, and to whom or what exactly am I speaking to?''

The man tutted and shook his head slowly at me as though I were a disappointment. My patience was wearing thin, evidently, so was his. He stood suddenly and walked over to me, purpose within his stride. In a remarkably soft voice, he spoke. ''Haven't I answered that question thoroughly enough for you to be able to deduce the rest? I expected so much more of you, Sherlock.'' He paused, tapping his lip in thought. ''Of course, you have not been given the relevant facts. Very well.'' He spun on the spot and moved to the fireplace, a spring in his step. The mirror upon the mantelpiece allowed me to glimpse the expression on his face, although I wish I had not for it was blatantly obvious he was scheming something unpleasant. He turned to me me once again, a mad leer upon his face. The resemblance between us was quite uncanny, and I am not afraid to admit it unnerved me somewhat. ''You have already deduced that you are now a vampire, although I am afraid to say your deductions are very inaccurate!''

I blinked, scowling. I had been bitten by a creature that should not exist beyond the realms of the imagination, yet apparently I was not fully informed. My mind spun unpleasantly; what could I have possibly missed? ''It seems to be that you are more informed than I, although if what you say about us both being the same being is true, you cannot possibly know more than I.''

The creature laughed brightly as if I had told a tasteful joke. ''Your logic is sound, as always, yet you fail to take your body into account. Where I can sense the changes within you, you are as good as oblivious to such changes. Of course, if you had taken the blood offered to you earlier, you would not be currently attached to that hideous contraption and would be free to embrace such changes!''

Offered? Surely he did not mean Watson? ''His blood was not an offering! If you are truly me, you would not even think such a thing for I would never force my affliction upon him in such a way. It was a simple experiment, nothing more.''

My copy threw his head back and laughed loudly, his eyes gleaming in sadistic amusement. He did not believe me. ''Tsk tsk. You must learn not to be so reckless with your studies, Sherlock. I could have tore the head from his neck quicker than you could have stopped me; I could feel your intoxication and your need for the hunt, you would have gladly let me take over in exchange for that bliss. Luckily for you he fled or there might have been his blood on more than your hands.''

I scowled, attempting to banish the disturbing images from my mind. I was well aware that I had put him in danger and did not intend to do so again. My copy tutted loudly, stretching as he walked back to his/my armchair. ''Tell me something, Sherlock... do you feel as though you have gone mad?''

''I admit, I am struggling to come to any other conclusion.''

''Then you are not yet ready. Begone.''

As quickly as I had 'moved' I had was returned back to 'my room'. Madness, it would seem, chooses to strike at the most inopportune moments. I closed my eyes and wondered idly what Watson would think of it all.

Authors Notes: Yes, it is a small chapter and it's taken me a while to get it written and posted up. I'm happy to see people have not yet lost interest in my poorly written story XD Cheers folks.


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